JN  VERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  DIEGC 


3  1822  00210  7670 


CUL  Anne: 

PS 

645 

.C58 

1915 


822002107670 


CLUB    STORIES 

Washington  State  Federation 
of  Women's  Clubs 


Lowman  &  Hanford  Co. 

Seattle,  Wash. 

1915 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 

LA  JOLLA.  CALIFORNIA 


Copyright  1915 
S.  W.  Hassell 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Rhododendrons Sophie  M.  C.  Fisher          9 

Queen  Anne  Fortnightly  Club,  Seattle. 

Susan's  Mountain      ....      Elizabeth  Jane  Haring        15 
Shakespeare  and  Civic  Improvement  Clubs,  Pasco. 

Old  Jud  Watkins      -      -      -      Lula  Shortridge  Stewart        21 
Women's   Club,  Spokane. 

The  Other  Kind       -       -       -       Caroline  Field  Williams        35 
Mutual  Improvement  Club,  Marysville. 

Reconciled Sara  Byrne  Goodwin        41 

Queen  Anne  Fortnightly  Club,  Seattle. 

"Rock  of  Ages"      ....      Gertrude  Allen  Knapp        47 
Coterie  Club,  Seattle. 

Deserted Louise  Monroe  Walton        51 

Aurora  Club,  Tacoma. 

The  New  Word       -      ...       Jessie  Hopkirk  Davis        57 
•    Twentieth   Century   Club,   North   Takima. 

Tod's  "Santy" Gertrude  Allen  Knapp        65 

Coterie  Club,  Seattle. 

Her  Birthright  -      -      -      Gertrude  Fulton  Tooker        73 

Mutual  Improvement  Club,  Marysville. 

The  Disciplinarian Maude  Farrar        81 

Progressive   Thought   Club,   Seattle. 

"The  Fine  Country"      ...      Anna  Brabham  Osborn        87 
Arts  and  Krafts,  and  Woman's  Club,  Puyallup 


REASONS 

Twenty-two  short  stories  were  written  by  Wash 
ington  club  women  in  a  contest  conducted  by  our 
state  literature  committee.  At  the  federation  con 
vention  held  in  Spokane  last  June,  the  decision  of 
the  judges  was  announced,  the  two  stories  ranking 
highest  were  read  and  the  enterprise  was  supposed 
to  be  happily  ended. 

Some  one  said :  "Publish  them  or  at  least  a  dozen 
of  them."  The  idea  grew.  There  are  now  fifteen 
thousand  club  women  in  the  state.  We  are  all  more 
or  less  interested  in  each  other's  work  and  would 
want  to  read  the  stories.  And  so  primarily  they  are 
printed  for  our  own  club  family  and  any  profit 
from  the  publication  goes  to  the  state  endowment 
fund. 

There  is  another  reason.  Under  the  conditions 
of  the  contest,  the  plot  of  each  story  was  to  be  laid 
in  the  Evergreen  State.  The  result  is  they  are  full 
of  local  color  and  have  a  value  aside  from  their 
literary  worth. 

Gentle  reader  or  competent  critic,  whichever  you 
may  be,  if  you  enjoy  only  the  literature  that  is 
immortal  you  would  better  pass  this  little  volume 
by  and  reach  up  to  the  five-foot  shelf  for  a  classic; 
if  you  must  be  thrilled  or  spell-bound,  it  were  safer 
for  you  to  buy  or  borrow  a  best-seller;  but  if  you 
have  broad  sympathies  and  a  heart  that  warms  to 
ward  your  kind,  we  are  confident  that  you  will  find 
something  to  like  in  our  stories. 

CLUB  WOMEN  OF  WASHINGTON. 
October  the  first,  1915. 

6 


Four-Leaf  Clover 


I  know  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold, 
And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow, 

And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  one  in  for  luck — 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 

But  you  must  have  hope  and  you  must  have  faith 
You  must  love  and  be  strong,  and  so, 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

— ELLA  HIGGINSON. 


The  mountain-lover  does  not  always  gaze  at  Kai- 
nier  or  Olympus.  He  has  learned  that  the  foot 
hills  have  a  charm  and  an  interest  of  their  own. 
And  they  too  point  upward. 


Rhododendrons 

AWARDED  FIRST  PRIZE 

I  watched  impatiently  the  men  unwrap  the  pic 
ture  they  had  brought.  It  was  a  painting  of  Val- 
iner's,  a  gift  from  Val  himself.  To  possess  a  work 
of  his  brush,  was  to  be  envied  by  the  most  discrim 
inating  collectors;  it  was  to  be  classed  with  the 
"fortunate  rich;"  it  was  to  be  numbered  with  the 
ultra-faddists  of  the  hour,  for  Valmer's  work  had 
created  nothing  less  than  a  storm  of  interest  in 
every  quarter. 

There  was  a  power  and  fullness  and  beauty  in  his 
work  which  held  withal  a  subtle,  sensitive  quality, 
difficult  to  define.  It  was  a  compelling,  unexplain- 
able  thing  of  mind  and  soul  that  lay  behind  vision 
and  technique,  and  its  message  never  failed  to 
reach  me,  in  my  exacting  and  saddening  work  as 
an  alienist,  with  a  touch  that  refreshed  and  re 
stored  my  questioning  soul. 

Valmer,  tall,  lean,  distinguished-looking,  followed 
close  upon  his  gift.  The  lion  of  the  hour,  compli 
mented  and  courted,  he  had  remained  singularly 
untouched  by  the  world,  with  a  heart  dedicated 
wholly  to  his  art,  and  to  one  friendship.  For  me, 
I  believe,  he  reserved  the  only  confidences  he  ever 
gave,  and  our  friendship  was  a  fine,  close-knitted 
thing.  We  lighted  cigars  and  Valmer  adjusted  the 
shades. 


"Ah!  Rhododendrons!  I  can  smell  them,  Val! 
Smell  them?  Why  I  feel  the  little  puffs  of  warm 
air  that  blow  over  them  from  the  sun-heated 
Sound."  With  a  sigh  of  anticipation  I  sank  into  a 
chair  before  the  picture,  scarce  hearing  Valmer's 
low,  "Flatterer,  you  inveterate  flatterer!" 

I  was  lost  at  once  in  the  suggestion  of  the  scene. 
Rhododendrons!  I  had  seen  such  a  bank.  Where? 
Where?  I  seemed  conscious  of  a  familiar,  compos 
ite  breath,  as  of  the  sea  and  sappy  green  things  and 
the  faint  exhalation  of  rhododendrons.  It  carried 
me  back  as  an  actual  odor  will  often  do,  and  I  saw 
again  the  great  building  where  I  had  spent  the  first 
years  of  practice  and  training  in  the  calling  I  had 
chosen.  It  was  the  state  hospital  for  the  insane. 

The  Washington  State  Asylum  stood  on  a  gentle 
slope  commanding  distant  glimpses  of  the  Sound. 
Behind  it  rose  great,  tonic  firs  and,  on  the  south 
and  west,  acres  of  flowering  shrubs  mingled  with 
the  evergreen  of  cedar,  fir  and  madrone.  Heavenly 
surroundings  for  so  sad  a  place.  The  hapless  in 
mates  were  gray  shadows  in  my  memory  now.  One 
only  stood  out  in  sharp  relief,  a  wild-eyed  youth 
who  had  come,  emaciated  and  unkempt,  clinging  to 
a  battered,  black  box.  He  had  been  assigned  to  my 
ward  and  proved  quiet  and  docile  when  left  undis 
turbed  to  paint  hideous  forms  which  he  seemed  to 
wipe  out  only  to  repeat  over  and  over  again  on  the 
same  canvas.  We  were  overworked  at  the  time,  so 
beyond  ordering  nourishing  food  and  comparative 
freedom  for  the  boy,  a  month  perhaps  elapsed  be 
fore  I  could  give  him  more  specific  attention. 

10 


Rhododendrons 

One  day,  observing  the  lad  stooping  over  his 
easel  at  a  point  where  a  bank  of  rhododendrons 
was  massed  in  full  bloom  against  the  blue  sky  and 
distant  Sound,  I  turned  my  steps  in  his  direction. 
He  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  me  as  I  drew 
near,  though  a  scowl  darkened  his  thin  face.  I 
looked  over  the  narrow'  back  at  the  canvas  he  was 
eternally  bending  over,  and  then  I  did  the  unfor 
givable  thing.  I  forgot  professional  caution  and 
cried  out  at  what  I  saw. 

The  rose  and  mauve  of  that  bank  of  bloom  was 
there,  a  living,  glowing  mass  of  color,  blending 
away  into  the  silver  and  azure  of  the  sky  and 
Sound,  and  it  was  done  with  the  accuracy  and 
power  of  genius.  In  my  astonishment  I  had  re 
laxed  my  watchfulness  over  the  sullen  figure  and  in 
another  moment  I  had  caught  the  thin  arm  in  a 
quick  strong  grip,  but  to  my  utter  dismay,  I  was 
too  late.  With  coarse,  mad  strokes  he  had  drawn 
a  hideous  form  across  the  exquisite  thing. 

"Boy — boy,"  I  actually  sobbed,  "what  have  you 
done — what  have  you  done?" 

I  had  retained  my  grip  on  the  thin  arm  but  with 
unlooked-for  strength  he  tore  himself  free  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  He  faced  me  with  the  look  of  a 
lost  soul  in  his  gaze,  then  flung  himself  face  down 
ward  on  the  ground,  shaking  with  hoarse,  rending 
sobs.  I  threw  myself  beside  the  poor,  attenuated 
form,  filled  with  compassion  for  the  anguish  that 
must  be  his  in  this  hour  of  revelation.  Had  reason 
come  to  him  for  a  moment  to  show  him  the  divine 
thing  he  held  within  his  breast  only  to  leave  him 

11 


Rhododendrons 

again  in  the  dark  shadow  where  his  soul  had  dwelt? 
I  stroked  the  neglected  hair  and  held  the  stained 
hand  in  my  own. 

"Harold,  my  boy,  my  poor  boy,  come,  we'll  cure 
you  yet !  Why,  we  send  numbers  away  every  year. 
If  you  will  obey  me  and  take  the  food  and  other 
things  I  order,  you'll  do  that  again,  and,  my  boy, 
I  could  sell  a  few  of  those  pictures  for  enough  to 
send  you  to  the  best  specialists  in  the  country." 
At  my  words  the  boy  sat  erect. 

"Could  you  sell  that?"  he  demanded  excitedly, 
pointing  to  the  defaced  picture. 

"Yes,  and  sometime,"  I  added  soothingly,  "you'll 
again  paint  like  that." 

"Paint  like  that!"  he  cried,  "why,  I  have  been 
doing  nothing  else !  I  tell  you,"  he  hurried  on,  his 
voice  rising,  "I  have  made  dozens  of  sketches  like 
that,  and  though  it  almost  killed  me,  I  covered 
them  with  those  hellish  things.  I  had  to  you  see, 
I  was  afraid  to  let  anyone  see  them." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  replied  sadly  as  I  saw  his  increasing 
excitement,  "Come,  shall  we  walk  back  to  the 
house?"  But  he  refused  to  be  diverted. 

"Doctor,  Doctor,"  he  repeated,  rather  wildly  now, 
"you  promise  to  sell  that  if  I  do  it  again?" 

"I  promise,"  I  humored  him. 

"Then  listen,  listen !  I  am  not  insane — no  more 
than  you  are.  You  won't  be  angry  with  me?  I 
had  to  paint.  My  father  was  an  artist,  and  so  poor 
I  think  he  and  my  mother  must  have  died  from  star 
vation  soon  after  they  came  west — when  I  was 
about  ten.  I  used  to  paint  with  my  father.  He 

12 


was  proud  of  me  and  would  say  I  had  it  in  me  to 
become  a  great  painter;  and  because  of  his  words, 
but  most  of  all  because  of  something  inside  me,  I 
have  worked  and  starved  to  buy  paint  and  canvas 
— but  I  starved  too  often  and  I  became  ill.  There 
were  times  when  I  felt  faint  and  dazed,  but  always, 
I  knew  I  must  paint.  One  day — I  stole  some  tubes. 
I  was  taken  some  place — to  jail,  I  suppose.  When 
the  doctors  questioned  me,  I  was  too  tired  to  care 
how  I  answered — 

"Then — then — I  came  here  and  you  allowed  me 
to  paint — to  spend  all  day  in  work,  and  it  was  so 
beautiful,  it  was  like — like  heaven  to  me.  I 
couldn't  work  fast  enough  to  make  sketches  of  all 
I  wanted  to  study.  It  wasn't  food  I  had  been  starv 
ing  for — it  was  just — a  chance  like  this.  Then  a 
terrible  fear  came  over  me.  I  was  in  an  agony  of 
dread  lest  I  be  sent  away.  I  was  afraid  to  show 
my  work,  I  was  afraid  to  ask  for  another  canvas, 
and  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  insanity,  I  would 
paint  over  the  things  I  loved  the  horrible  shapes 
you  have  seen.  It  wasn't  right — it  wasn't  honest; 
but  I  thought  if  I  ate  very  little — and  now  if  you 
sell  my  pictures  I  can  pay — you  are  not  angry, 
Doctor?" 

I  could  not  answer  for  the  aching  pressure  in  my 
throat.  In  the  imploring  eyes  that  burned  into 
mine,  was  no  trace  of  dementia,  and  I  knew  I  was 
looking  into  the  soul  of  one  anointed,  who  had 
kept  the  faith,  almost  at  the  cost  of  the  frail  body.  I 
could  only  throw  my  arm  about  the  slender  form 
and  draw  him  to  the  grassy  seat  beside  me.  There 

13 


Rhododendrons 

we  sat  and  talked  until  the  shrubs  above  us  cast 
long  shadows  like  giant  crow's-feet  across  the  path 
and  my  name  was  called  in  the  distance. 

"And  some  day,  you  say,  I  may  go  abroad  to 
study?" 

"In  a  year's  time ;  I  pledge  it,  if  it  takes  the  last 
sou  you  and  I  can  earn." 

I  left  him  there  among  the  rhododendrons,  a 
measureless  gratitude  in  his  eyes.  And  that  was 
twenty  years  ago ! 

On  my  hand  the  ashes  from  my  forgotten  cigar 
fell  soft  and  warm  as  a  breath  of  that  May  day  as 
Valmer's  lean  arm  slipped  over  the  back  of  my 
chair.  I  was  scarce  roused  from  the  spell  his  pic 
ture  had  cast  and  his  vibrant  voice  came  like  an 
echo  to  my  thoughts : 

"Doctor,  it  was  twenty  years  ago  today !" 


14 


Susan's  Mountain 

Travelers  passing  through  the  town  of  Pasco 
are  wont  to  comment  on  the  long  row  of  red  houses 
which  are  rented  by  the  Northern  Pacific  railway 
company  to  their  employees  and  which  are  so  alike 
in  color,  size  and  style  of  architecture  that  to  the 
casual  observer  there  are  no  distinguishing  features. 

During  the  summer  months  of  the  present  time 
their  ugly  color  and  harsh  lines  are  quite  con 
cealed  and  softened  by  green  vines  and  shade  trees, 
and  the  lawns  are  spacious  and  well  kept;  but  six 
or  seven  years  ago  any  little  bird  would  have  told 
you  that  there  wasn't  a  decent  tree  in  Pasco,  the 
lusty  poplars  and  strong-limbed  locusts  of  today 
being  then  only  slips  of  promise. 

From  the  station  the  eyes  are  now  delighted  with 
the  smooth  macadamized  pavement  and  concrete 
walks,  and  the  illumination  at  night  of  numerous 
cluster  lights  gives  the  place  quite  a  metropolitan 
aspect,  but  at  the  time  of  this  narrative,  the  streets, 
billowy  with  sand,  were  flanked  with  uneven,  nail- 
studded  board  walks,  and  citizens  went  abroad  at 
night  in  the  perils  of  darkness. 

It  was  at  this  unattractive  period  that  Susan 
Wells,  the  wife  of  a  locomotive  engineer,  lived  in 
number  sixteen  in  the  Row;  and  on  this  particular 
day  she  was  there  alone,  wretched  in  body  and 
spirit. 

It  was  in  July  and  it  would  have  been  exceedingly 
hot  in  the  shade,  had  there  been  any  shade,  and  Jim 

15 


Susan's   Mountain 

and  she  had  had  their  first  quarrel!  Now  he  had 
gone  out  on  his  run,  and  she  had  not  even  put  up 
his  lunch  or  said  good-bye. 

Many  women  under  the  stress  of  similar  emotions 
would  have  indulged  in  a  good  cry,  but  Susan  had 
such  a  horror  of  disorder  that  even  now  in  genuine 
grief  and  anger  it  was  characteristic  of  her  that 
she  should  be  sitting  as  she  was,  before  the  open 
door,  only  the  tightly  clasped  hands  and  brown 
eyes  mirroring  the  misery  of  her  hour. 

Before  her  a  vast  expanse  of  sage-  and  cactus- 
dotted  plain  stretched  to  where  the  Columbia  shim 
mered  placidly  in  the  sun  and  waves  of  heat  scintil 
lated  and  danced  in  mocking  spirals  over  the  white 
sand  of  her  front  yard. 

Visualizing,  in  marked  contrast  to  this,  the  little 
white  cottage  with  its  lilacs  and  ivy  they  had  left  in 
the  East,  Susan,  bitter  in  rebellion,  felt  that  to  the 
injury  of  giving  up  such  comforts,  Jim  had  added 
an  unexpected  insult  in  suggesting  that  they  take 
his  sister's  little  boys  to  raise  as  their  own. 

Naturally  she,  too,  had  been  shocked  by  Nellie's 
sudden  death  and  had  sympathized  with  her  hus 
band,  for  she  knew  that  he  loved  his  sister  and  there 
was  now  no  one  to  care  for  her  children  but  him; 
yet  she  felt  that  she  had  been  very  magnanimous  in 
offering  to  give  up  half  her  monthly  allowance  to 
assist  in  their  maintenance  in  some  institution, 
and  at  his  uncalled  for  resentment  at  this  disposal 
of  the  boys,  she  had  angrily  made  it  clear  that  any 
added  burden  to  her  already  over-taxed  strength  was 
not  to  be  considered.  Now  he  had  gone  and  she 

16 


Susan's   Mountain 

was  unconsciously  trying  to  justify  her  decision 
by  summoning  before  her  all  the  disagreeable 
phases  of  the  situation. 

Had  she  not  swept  and  dusted  and  scrubbed  con 
tinuously  ever  since  coming  to  this  dirt-infested 
region?  And  now  to  have  the  care  of  two  boys! 

Mechanically  she  noted  that  the  atmosphere  was 
assuming  the  haziness  attendant  upon  the  ap 
proach  of  a  sand  storm.  The  brilliancy  of  the  sun 
was  gradually  dimming  and  a  bank  of  pale  coppery 
clouds  was  piling  up  in  the  west.  A  little  current 
of  air  whirled  into  the  room,  raced  madly  through 
loose  papers  and  sent  cards  and  photographs  flying. 

With  the  hopelessness  of  a  martyr,  Susan  began 
closing  doors  and  windows  and  the  fact  that  the 
air  would  consequently  be  agreeably  cooled  by  the 
storm  was  no  compensation  to  her  for  the  wrork  it 
would  entail. 

Loose  clapboards  began  to  flap,  windows  rattled, 
a  dense  gloom  descended  and  the  storm  broke  with 
furious  vehemence. 

Huge  balls  of  dried  "tumble  weed'  rolled  merrily 
by,  old  papers  sailed  high  in  the  air  and  the  sand 
beat  against  the  panes  like  rain. 

All  kinds  of  objects  blew  past  and  once  an  empty 
five-gallon  kerosene  can  hurtled  itself  upon  the 
porch  and  clattered  into  a  corner.  Across  the 
street  a  tin  bill-board,  posting  glaring  inducements 
to  buy  land  in  the  vicinity  and  the  familiar  slogan, 
"KEEP  YOUR  EYE  ON  PASCO/'  lurched  drunkenly 
and  crashed  forward  with  deafening  clamor. 

The  back  door  opened  with  a  rush. 

17 


Susan's   Mountain 

"Anybody  living?"  called  a  woman's  voice. 

It  was  Mrs.  Allen  who  lived  next  door;  she  al 
ways  announced  her  coming  in  this  way  and  al 
though  Susan  showed  her  disapproval  of  her  fa 
miliar  and  easy  manner  the  little  neighbor  seemed 
cheerfully  impervious  to  rebukes  and  inuendoes. 
While  Mrs.  Allen  was  known  to  be  a  graduate  of 
Wellesly  and  was  a  general  favorite  in  the  Row, 
the  fact  that  she  kept  house  with  a  total  disregard 
of  order  and  professed  to  enjoy  sandstorms  placed 
her  without  the  pale  of  Susan's  regard. 

"Isn't  this  great!"  she  panted,  plumping  into  a 
chair.  "Billy  and  the  kiddies  are  finishing  up  a 
two  days'  mess  of  dishes  and  they  sent  me  over 
here  to  keep  you  company." 

And  "Billy"  who  was  a  very  efficient  civil  engi 
neer,  openly  adored  this  inconsequential  little 
creature ! 

"But,"  she  rattled  on,  "I  told  them  I  was  sure 
you'd  be  delighted  with  this  storm,  for  now  you 
would  have  a  lot  of  new  material  for  your  moun 
tain." 

"Mountain !"  repeated  Susan  blankly. 

"Why  sure,"  laughed  Mrs.  Allen.  "You're  for 
ever  digging  for  dirt  and  I  suppose  you  contem 
plate  doing  something  with  it  eventually?  Make  a 
pyramid  or  some  such  monument  to  your  life's  work. 
This,"  indicating  with  a  gesture  the  thick  layer  of 
fine  sand  now  covering  window  sills  and  floor, 
"ought  to  cheer  you  up  considerably." 

At  that  moment  the  telephone  rang  and  in  the  in- 
terjectional  conversation  which  followed,  jests  and 

18 


Susan's   Mountain 

commonplaces  were  eliminated  by  a  cataclysm  of 
real  misfortune.  Jim's  engine  had  been  wrecked. 
Yes,  he  was  seriously  injured  and  she  must  get 
ready  at  once  to  accompany  him  to  Tacoma. 

Afterward  when  her  mind  could  adjust  itself  to 
normal  thinking,  she  recalled  with  surprise  that  it 
was  Mrs.  Allen  who  had  so  capably  managed  her 
affairs  for  her  in  her  distress  and  it  had  been  to 
the  little  neighbor  whom  she  had  always  regarded 
as  frivolous  and  incompetent  that  she  had  turned 
in  helpless  subjection. 

In  the  long  days  that  followed,  in  the  bare  white 
room  of  the  hospital,  with  nurses  and  doctors  in 
grave-faced  consultation  over  the  bruised  and  brok 
en  body  of  her  husband,  she  had  ample  time  to 
realize  her  own  impotence  and  the  insignificance 
of  the  little  things  which  had  hitherto  loomed  so 
large  on  her  mental  horizon.  And  how  many 
times  in  the  innocent  delirium  of  the  sufferer  was 
her  selfishness  paraded  before  her  agonized  con 
sciousness. 

"Sue,  dear,"  he  would  murmur,  brokenly; 
"they've  put  me  into  this  clean  bed  with  my  greasy 
overalls  on  and  you'll  never  get  these  sheets  clean." 
And  then — 

"Honey,  I  wiped  my  bloody  hands  on  that  em 
broidered  towel  and  the  stains  w^on't  come  out.  Gee, 
look  at  the  tracks  I've  made."  Then  he  would 
start  up  and  groan  with  the  effort. 

Sometimes  he  would  think  she  was  Nellie. 

"Ah,  little  sis,  don't  cry !  I  can't  help  it.  Sue's 
worked  to  death,  digging  and  scrubbing  all  the 

19 


Susan's   Mountain 

time.  I'll  take  care  of  your  little  boys,  Nell,  but 
Sue  ain't  strong  and  I  dassen't  take  'em  home." 

Once  he  laughed  out  heartily : 

"There  ain't  nuthin'  cuter  'n  a  little  kid  all 
smeared  up  like  that  with  jam !" 

The  nurse  smiled  interrogatively  into  the  wife's 
eyes,  "You  have  a  baby?" 

Susan  shook  her  head  dully  and  a  new  pain 
crept  into  her  already  overladen  heart. 

The  night  came  at  last,  when,  the  crisis  safely 
over,  the  glad  light  of  recognition  and  the  weak 
pressure  of  his  hand  was  Heaven  itself  for  Susan; 
and  in  that  moment  she  conceived  a  resolution  the 
birth  of  which  was  to  bring  future  happiness  for 
all  concerned. 

Slowly  but  surely  Jim  regained  strength  and  the 
time  arived  when  he  obtained  his  release  and  they 
were  preparing  to  go  home. 

"Jim,"  faltered  Susan  on  that  morning,  stand 
ing  behind  his  chair  and  caressingly  running  her 
fingers  through  his  thick  ruddy  hair,  "I'm  through 
working  on  my  mountain." 

"Mountain !"  he  ejaculated. 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  explain  about  that  now, 
but  I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  the  letter  I  got  this 
morning  was  from  Mrs.  Allen."  She  handed  it  to 
him  and  smiled  joyously  into  his  bewildered  eyes. 
"And  she  says  that  Nellie's  boys,  our  very  own 
now,  for  I've  attended  to  all  that  since  we've  been 
here,  arrived  safely  and  will  be  at  the  station  to 
morrow  when  we  get  back  to  dear  old  Pasco !" 

20 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

"Yes,  siree,  take  it  from  me,  every  man  that  lives 
has  hidden  somewhere  in  his  make-up,  the  soul  of 
poetry, — or  whatever  you  want  to  call  it, — that 
something  can  touch  at  some  time  in  his  life  to 
arouse  in  him — " 

Old  Jud  Watkins  turned  toward  me  as  he  spoke, 
and  catching  a  puzzled  expression  on  my  face, — 
inasmuch  as  I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  had 
led  to  this  unexpected  peroration, — he  stopped, 
gave  a  short  embarrassed  laugh,  and  explained : 

"You  see,  I  have  been  here  alone  so  much  that  I 
sort  of  have  the  habit  of  talking  with  folks  in  imag 
ination,  and  I  start  out  and  finish  my  side  of  the 
argument  out  loud  and  suddenly  find  that  I  have 
been  doing  all  the  previous  talking  just  in  my  mind. 
So  don't  mind  me  if  I  kind  o'  surprise  you  at  times." 

While  speaking,  he  had  been  idly  tapping  on 
his  knee  with  a  letter  which  the  rural  route  post 
man  had  brought  a  short  time  before,  so  I  drew  the 
natural  inference  that  its  contents  had  something 
to  do  with  the  old  man's  thoughts. 

Ill  health  had  sent  me  away  from  my  city  home 
in  the  east  to  this  ranch  in  the  picturesque  state  of 
Washington,  situated  in  the  big  bend  of  a  wide  river, 
where  beyond  the  long,  even  stretch  of  meadow  and 
grain  field  rose  the  snow-peaked  mountains.  It 
was  an  artist's  dream  of  the  beautiful;  but  what 

21 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

was  more  to  me,  it  contained  all  that  could  be  de 
sired  towards  helping  me  to  regain  health  and  phys 
ical  strength. 

I  had  found  this  particular  spot  through  an  olcf 
friend,  who  was  also  a  friend  of  Jud  Watkins :  and 
here  I  was,  partly  ranch  hand,  partly  boarder,  but 
best  of  all,  the  trusted  and  fortunate  confidant  of 
the  old  bachelor  ranchman  who  was  doing  more 
with  his  quaint  and  wholesome  logic  and  healthful 
habits,  to  put  me  back  in  my  rightful  place  among 
men,  than  all  else  in  the  way  of  medicine  and  diet. 
Just  how  he  had  so  vitally  changed  my  own  warped 
outlook  upon  the  world  and  life  in  general,  and  set 
my  feet  firmly  upon  the  safe  and  sane  road  to  my 
individual  happiness,  is  "another  story''  as  Kipling 
used  to  say:  and  this  is  another's  story,  not  mine. 

Noting  the  interest  in  my  eyes,  old  Jud  Watkins 
reached  over  and  tapped  his  pipe  against  the  porch 
railing  until  it  was  emptied  to  his  satisfaction,  then 
carefully  refilling  and  relighting  it,  continued  his 
preface  as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption. 

"Yes  siree;  no  matter  what  for  looks  a  fellow 
might  be,  he  still  has  some  where  within  that  'di 
vine  spark'  we  read  about,  which  somethin'  can 
reach,  if  it  comes  jest  at  the  right  time ;  the  'psycho 
logical  moment'  they  call  it. 

"You've  heard  me  speak  of  Tom  Millard, — <No- 
Speakum',  the  ranch  hands  named  him, — who  was 
here  with  me  up  to  about  a  year  ago?  Well, — he 
was  the  one  fellow  who  it  seemed  to  me  at  times, 
was  totally  lacking  in  any  spot  through  which  he 

22 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

could  be  reached.     But  I  will  tell  you  about  him 
from  the  first. 

"You  see,  he  drifted  in  her  one  evening  at  dusk, 
about  two  years  ago.  Although  he  was  footing  it, 
I  sized  him  up  at  once  as  not  being  an  ordinary 
tramp,  or  for  that  matter,  an  ordinary  fellow  of  any 
kind.  He  asked  for  a  night's  lodging  and  as  I 
never  turn  any  one  away,  being  so  far  from  rail 
road  stations  and  boat  landings,  I  let  him  sleep 
down  in  one  of  the  bunk  houses.  Next  morning 
he  offered  to  pay  for  everything,  same  as  if  he  had 
stopped  at  some  fine  hotel.  I  told  him  to  keep  his 
money  and  his  breath  too, — as  he  started  to  insist, 
—for  he  might  need  'em  both  at  some  future  time, 
He  looked  at  me  kind  o'  queer,  and  then  dropped 
down  on  an  old  piece  of  machinery  and  sat  still  so 
long,  gazing  off  into  the  mountains  that  I  won 
dered  what  ailed  the  man.  He  seemed  to  have  for 
gotten  my  presence  and  everything  else  and  it  was 
plain  that  somethin'  was  bothering  him  terrible. 
After  a  long  time  he  kind  o'  roused  up  and  asked 
me  how  far  it  was  to  the  nearest  postoffice.  I  told 
him,  but  it  didn't  occur  to  me  to  mention  that  I  was 
on  a  rural  delivery  route.  My  answer  seemed  to 
satisfy  him  on  some  point,  for  he  nodded  his  head 
as  if  he  was  answering  some  question  to  himself. 
Pretty  soon  he  looked  up  at  me  and  asked  abrupt 
ly:  'Can  I  work  here  for  you, — for  my  board?'  I 
didn't  know  jest  what  to  say  for  a  minute  then  I 
told  him  that  I  wouldn't  be  needing  help  much  till 
a  month  or  so  later  when  harvest  would  begin ;  but 

23 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

as  I  talked  I  watched  his  face,  and  such  a  look  of 
disappointment  settled  on  it  that  I  finished  by  say 
ing  that  if  he  really  wished  to,  he  could  work  for 
his  board  until  that  time,  and  then  if  he  wanted  to 
make  a  regular  harvest  hand,  I  would  pay  him  the 
usual  wages.  I  won't  soon  forget  the  look  of  grati 
tude  he  gave  me,  and  it  set  me  to  wondering  what 
was  back  of  it  all;  why  a  man  of  his  brains  and 
polish  should  be  so  grateful  for  permission  to  bury 
himself  out  here  on  my  quiet  ranch;  and  what  it 
was  that  had  left  such  a  mark  on  his  face. 

"Well — he  stayed  on,  and  I  grew  to  know  as  much 
about  him  as  I  do  of  that  tallest  mountain  peak  over 
there, — which  has  never  been  climbed.  I  couldn't 
talk  to  him,  cause  if  a  fellow  talks  too  long  to  him 
self  he  begins  to  realize  he's  logy;  and  talking  to 
that  man  was  sure  like  talking  to  yourself  when 
you  don't  expect  an  answer.  After  a  while  I  quit. 
When  the  harvest  hands  came  later  on  they  tried 
as  I  had  done,  to  pick  up  some  kind  of  conversation 
with  him,  and  with  the  same  results.  Some  fellow 
gave  him  the  nick-name  'No-Speakum,'  and  that  was 
all  he  was  known  by  from  then  on.  To  me  he  was 
'Tom',  for  that  was  what  he  had  told  me  to  call  him, 
and  I  never  knew  what  his  last  name  was  until  after 
he  had  been  here  about  six  months.  One  day  the 
postman  (and  I  never  will  forget  the  look  of  sur 
prise  and  anger  that  came  over  Tom's  face  that  first 
time  he  saw  the  rural  delivery  man  come  by  here ! ) 
left  a  letter  here  addressed  to  Mr.  T.  J.  Millard.  I 
called  after  the  fellow  as  he  started  away, — I  had 
gone  down  to  the  mail  box  when  I  saw  him  coming, 

24 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

'Here,  this  is  a  mistake;  there  is  nobody  here  by 
the  name  of  Millard.'  As  the  postman  started  back, 
Tom,  who  was  near,  spoke  up  quick  as  though  he 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment,  'Here,  it  is  for  me.' 
I  didn't  say  anything  of  course,  but  just  handed  the 
letter  to  him,  and  the  postman  went  on.  But  man 
alive!  When  he  looked  at  that  letter  and  seemed 
to  recognize  the  handwriting,  I  never  saw  such  a 
look  on  any  man's  face  as  was  on  his !  He  turned 
chalky  white  first,  then  his  eyes  blazed  like  coals  of 
fire  and  he  shook  like  a  fellow  with  the  ague.  I 
pretended  not  to  notice.  He  hurried  into  the  house, 
caught  up  a  pen  and  jambed  it  down  into  the  ink 
bottle,  wrote  something  on  the  face  of  the  envelope 
after  scratching  off  part  of  the  address,  then  rushed 
out  of  the  house  and  ran  a  quarter  of  a  mile  like 
a  madman  until  he  overtook  the  postman  and  gave 
him  that  letter. 

"For  days  after  that,  he  seemed  like  a  man  in  a 
dream, — and  a  mighty  unhappy  one  at  that !  I  said 
very  little  to  him,  and  aside  from  asking  the  nec 
essary  questions,  or  answering  one,  he  was  more 
silent  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible. 

"Of  course  my  curiosity  was  aroused  by  this 
strange  man.  What  could  his  past  be?  Certainly 
he  was  not  a  criminal!  nor  was  he  a  fugitive  from 
the  law.  (I  won't  say  'justice'.)  He  had  as  high 
a  sense  of  honor  as  any  man  I  know,  and  I  would 
have  trusted  him  with  anything. 

"About  a  month  later,  another  letter  came.  This 
time  Tom  wasn't  at  the  house  and  I  did  not  get  the 
mail  until  after  the  postman  was  out  of  sight.  It 

25 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

was  addressed  same  as  the  first  one,  and  I  noticed 
the  writing  this  time  as  I  carried  the  mail  to  the 
house.  It  was  a  fine  handwriting,  surely  a  woman's 
and  easier  to  read  than  most  of  'em.  If  what  they 
say  is  true  about  character  showing  up  in  one's 
writing,  I  should  have  said  the  writer  of  that  letter 
was  a  good  woman.  Still, — you  never  can  tell. 
Look  at  the  writing  of  Jim  Turner;  clear  cut  and 
fine  as  a  copy  book,  and  goodness,  that  fellow  just 
seems  as  if  he  never  could  be  straight.  And  then 
again,  do  you  recall  the  handwriting  of  some  of  our 
best  men?  Crooked  and  wobbly,  as  though  they 
had  no  backbone.  I  never  could  see  as  the  hand 
writing  is  much  of  a  test.  But  I'm  gettin'  off  my 
story :  When  Tom  came  into  the  house  and  found 
that  letter  lying  there  on  the  table,  I  just  put  it 
there  without  calling  his  attention  to  it,  as  I  didn't 
know  what  else  to  do, — that  same  look  of  white  rage 
came  into  his  face,  and  it  almost  made  me  afraid 
of  him  as  if  he  could  lay  the  blame  on  me.  I  was 
busy  with  the  newspapers  that  are  always  about  a 
week  old  when  they  reach  here  you  know,  and  a 
fellow  is  pretty  anxious  to  know  what's  going  on  in 
the  world.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  I  saw  Tom 
take  the  pen  as  savagely  as  he  did  before,  and 
scratch  the  address  and  write  something  else  on  it, 
then  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  having  the  letter  in  the 
house,  he  went  down  to  the  mailbox  and  threw  it  in, 
although  the  postman  wouldn't  be  by  until  next  day. 

"In  about  a  month,  another  one  came.  Now  I 
suppose  I  did  something  that  some  fussy  folks 
would  say  wasn't  just  square,  but  I  don't  care. 

26 


Old  Jud  Wdtkins 

Sometimes  I  think  the  end  justifies  the  means,  and 
this  wasn't  a  thing  that  disturbed  my  conscience 
so's  I  couldn't  sleep.  When  I  took  some  of  my  own 
mail  down  for  the  postman  to  collect,  I  picked  up 
the  letter  Tom  had  thrown  into  the  box  same  as  the 
others,  and  looked  at  it.  As  I  say,  I  picked  it  up 
and  looked  carefully  at  what  Tom  had  written  on 
it,  so's  to  remember  it. 

"He  had  written  'Return  to  sender,'  and  in  the 
corner  was  the  name  'Mrs.  T.  J.  Millard,  Winns- 
boro,  South  Carolina.'  So  he  was  married.  His 
wife  had  been  writing  to  him,  and  he  had  been  re 
turning  the  letters  to  her,  un-opened.  And  he  was 
a  Southerner.  I  had  suspected  as  much  from  his 
talk;  one  of  those  hot-headed,  proud  sons  of  the 
South  who  are  governed  by  rash  hearts  instead  of 
cool  heads. 

"I  was  puzzling  over  the  whole  strange  situation 
that  evening  when  Tom  suddenly  spoke  to  me  in  a 
tone  that  made  me  fairly  jump,  intent  as  my  mind 
was  on  him.  'There  won't  be  much  work  for  the 
next  few  weeks ;  I'm  going  on  a  long  tramp  up  into 
the  mountains.' 

"He  was  gone  for  about  two  weeks.  When  he 
came  back  his  face  was  thinner  and  more  worn  than 
ever  with  such  a  tired  look  in  his  eyes  that  I  pitied 
him  in  my  heart.  No  matter  where  the  fault  lay, 
that  man  was  suffering  the  torments  of  hell! 
When  I  looked  at  him  and  realized  what  a  woman 
can  do  with  a  man's  heart, — well,  I  felt  deeply 

27 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

thankful  that  I  had  been  left  with  some  sweeter 
memories  than  had  been  this  man's  portion. 

"Well, — I'm  a  bit  ahead  of  my  story  again. 
While  he  was  gone,  I  got  busy.  I  had  carefully 
made  a  note  of  his  wife's  address,  so  one  night  when 
I  sat  thinking  the  matter  over,  I  wrote  a  letter  to 
her.  I  told  her  who  I  was  and  that  Mr.  Millard 
lived  with  me  here  on  my  ranch.  And  then  as  care 
fully  as  I  could,  so's  not  to  fumble  things,  I  asked 
her  where  the  trouble  lay, — in  case  she  wished  me 
to  know, — and  offered  as  delicately  as  I  could,  to 
be  of  help  to  them  both  if  she  would  let  me.  I 
knew  I  run  a  big  risk  of  getting  into  trouble  and 
bein'  told  to  mind  my  own  business. 

"Well, — I  mailed  that  letter  and  then  watched 
for  an  answer  like  some  love-sick  swain,  hoping  it 
would  escape  the  sharp  eyes  of  Tom.  It  came  one 
day  when  Tom  was  on  the  far  side  of  the  ranch. 
And  such  a  letter !  Man  that  I  am,  I'm  not  ashamed 
to  tell  you  that  the  tears  were  running  down  my 
old  cheeks  before  I  laid  it  down !  That  poor  little 
girl  didn't  spare  herself;  she  told  me  everything, 
— and  I  believed  her!  And  right  then  and  there  I 
vowed  I'd  do  everything  in  my  power  to  help  her 
— and  that  meant  him  too,  of  course. 

"No  need  to  go  into  the  details  of  her  story.  An 
up-to-date  story  writer  could  have  made  out  of  it 
one  of  those  three-sided  affairs  that  magazine  read 
ers  go  crazy  over ;  only  this  one,  being  a  true  story, 
didn't  have  the  kind  of  spice  that  makes  good  read 
ing  to  some  folks.  This  woman  was  a  good  woman. 
I  knew  it. 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

"I  pondered  over  it  for  days  and  weeks,  trying  to 
see  what  I  could  do  without  spoiling  everything  in 
clumsy,  man  fashion. 

"One  night  some  neighbors  were  in  and  we  were 
sitting  around  the  fire  here, — it  was  in  early  spring, 
—and  the  talk  turned  on  a  murder  trial  the  papers 
were  full  of  at  that  time.  A  man  had  been  found 
dead  on  a  train,  and  poison  had  been  found  in  an 
empty  bottle  that  had  contained  whiskey  which  he 
had  evidently  drunk.  The  man  had  a  handsome 
wife  and  they  had  not  been  on  the  best  of  terms; 
in  order  to  make  everlasting  fame  for  himself,  some 
young  state's  attorney  had  the  wife  thrown  into 
prison  and  was  making  desperate  efforts  to  prove 
her  a  murderess.  Luck  seemed  against  him.  The 
outcome  was  still  in  doubt  at  this  time. 

"While  we  were  discussing  this  point,  I  had  a 
sudden  inspiration.  With  all  the  eloquence  at  my 
command  I  launched  into  a  defense  of  the  woman, 
and  all  her  unfortunate  sisters.  Leading  on  from 
this  I  told  a  lot  of  instances  where  women  had  been 
wrongfully  judged  and  their  lives  ruined  everlast 
ingly  just  through  circumstantial  evidence. 

"  <I  knew  a  case  once,'  I  said,  'where  a  man  and 
his  wife  were  separated  by  some  little  thing,  and  it 
was  wrecking  both  their  lives, — just  breaking  their 
hearts!  And  the  whole  thing  was  only  a  misun 
derstanding.  The  young  wife  was  full  of  life  and 
natural  animal  spirits,  and  in  a  spirit  of  dare- 
deviltry  was  a  party  in  some  foolish  escapade  with 
several  others, — who  were  smooth  enough  to  lie  out 
of  it, — which  looked  bad  for  her  and  one  man  in 

29 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

a  manner  that  would  have  hopelessly  compromised 
her  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  had  not  her  husband 
straightened  the  whole  thing  out  and  turned  it  into 
a  joke,  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  every  one — ex 
cepting  himself.  He  believed  she  had  lied  to  him. 
He  left  her  like  one  insane,  rushing  off  to  the  far 
ends  of  the  earth  without  ever  giving  any  one  a 
chance  to  help  clear  up  the  trouble,  not  even  his 
mother.  Jest  see  the  misery  his  rashness  and  blind 
pride  caused,  both  to  himself  and  his  poor  little 
wife.  And  she  had  told  him  the  truth.' 

"By  the  time  I  had  got  this  far,  Tom  had  bolted 
for  the  door,  and  he  did  not  come  back  until  after 
every  one  was  abed  and  asleep.  I  had  no  way  of 
knowing  whether  he  had  taken  anything  I  said  to 
himself  or  not;  but  I  knew  it  had  at  least  stirred 
things  up  and  maybe  set  him  thinking, — and  that 
was  a  whole  lot.  That  is,  if  it  had  started  him  on  a 
different  tack  than  he  had  been  on  these  many 
months.  How  I  hoped  and  prayed  the  unhappy 
fellow  would  jest  let  down  the  bars  long  enough  for 
me  to  reach  him  in  some  way. 

"One  day  as  I  sat  reading  a  Spokane  paper,  I 
ran  across  something  that  brought  the  tears  to  my 
old  eyes, — and  it  gave  me  a  thought. 

"You  know  on  the  editorial  page  of  the  Spokane 
Chronicle,  there  is  a  column  headed  'Old  Favorites/ 
and  under  it  they  re-print  old  poems.  What  I  had 
come  across  was  a  poem  by  Bob  Burdette  that 
would  have  softened  a  heart  of  stone  it  seemed  to 
me, — it  was  so  sweet  and  touching. 

30 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

"I  folded  the  paper  so  that  page  was  uppermost 
and  with  a  devout  prayer,  laid  it  where  I  knew 
Tom  would  pick  it  up  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  Well, 
he  did  that  very  thing.  I  sat  like  one  froze  to  the 
chair  as  I  watched  his  eye  light  on  this  very  poem, 
then  follow  it  down  line  after  line.  It  was  entitled 
'Alone,'  and  this  is  how  it  goes — for  I  know  it  by 
heart : 

"  'I  miss  you,  my  darling,  my  darling; 
The  embers  burn  low  on  the  hearth, 
And  hushed  is  the  stir  of  the  household, 
And  still  the  voice  of  its  mirth. 
Rain  splashes  fast  on  the  terrace, 
The  winds  past  the  lattices  moan, 
The  midnight  bell  rings  in  the  darkness, 
And  I  am  alone. 

"  'I  want  you,  my  darling,  my  darling; 
I  am  tired  with  care  and  with  fret, 
I  would  nestle  in  silence  beside  you, 
And  all  but  your  presence  forget 
In  the  hush  of  the  happiness  given 
To  those  who  through  trusting  have  grown 
To  the  fulness  of  love  and  contentment; 
But  I  am  alone. 

"'I  call  you,  my  darling,  my  darling; 
My  voice  echoes  back  on  my  heart; 
I  stretch  my  arms  to  you  in  longing, 
And  lo!   they  fall  empty  apart. 
I  whisper  sweet  words,  you  taught  me, 
The  words  we  only  have  known, 
Till  the  blank  of  the  dumb  air  is  bitter, 
And  I  am  alone. 

"  'I  pray  for  you  darling,  my  darling; 
With  its  yearning  my  very  heart  aches, 
And  the  load  that  divides  us  weighs  harder, 
I  shrink  from  the  jar  it  makes. 
Old  sorrows  rise  up  to  beset  me, 
Old  doubts  make  my  spirit  their  own; 
Oh,  come  through  the  darkness  and  save  me, 
For  I  am  alone!     Alone!' 

31 


Old  Jud   Watkins 

"It  must  have  been  the  'psychological  moment', 
— for  that  poem  went  straight  to  the  mark.  I 
knew  it  by  the  way  the  muscles  of  his  face  twitched 
and  his  quick  intake  of  breath  at  the  finish,  almost 
like  a  sob.  My  heart  sent  up  a  prayer  of  thankful 
ness  when  he  caught  up  his  hat  and  started  out  on 
one  of  his  long  walks.  I  knew  I  had  won. 

"When  he  came  back  I  was  prepared  for  his  blunt 
statement  that  he  was  starting  for  the  nearest 
station  at  once. 

"He  pressed  my  hand  hard  at  parting, — merely 
saying  he  would  write  me  soon.  But  I  understood. 
And  some  way  or  other,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  I 
understood." 

Again  the  old  man  seemed  to  drift  off  into  his 
dream  country  where  the  pictures  made  soft,  ten 
der  reflections  in  his  kindly  eyes,  and  I  was  to  be 
forgotten  for  the  time.  Then  turning  as  he  had  at 
the  beginning  of  the  story  when  he  had  uttered  his 
belief  in  the  divine  spark  in  every  man,  he  met  my 
expression  of  unsatisfied  interest  and  it  brought  him 
back  to  the  present  with  an  apologetic  cough. 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  more  to  tell."  He  looked 
over  at  me  with  his  benevolent,  kindly  smile  that 
had  endeared  him  to  me  as  much  as  the  wholesome 
philosophy  which  it  usually  accompanied.  "If  my 
conscience  ever  had  troubled  me  about  the  part  I 
played,  it  wras  soon  appeased.  Here  is  one  of  many 
letters  I  have  had  from  Tom  Millard, — you  may 
read  it,  but  first,  just  look  at  this."  And  he  drew 
from  the  envelope  a  postcard  photograph  and 
handed  it  to  me.  It  was  of  a  man  and  a  baby  of 

32 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

perhaps  a  year  and  a  half,  and  beneath  was  written 
in  a  bold  hand,  "Tom,  Jr.,  and  Tom,  Sr." 

The  picture  alone  would  have  put  the  right  "finis" 
to  the  story;  for  if  ever  I  saw  happiness,  I  read  it 
in  the  handsome,  manly  face  in  the  picture,  and 
coupled  with  it  was  the  just  pride  in  the  sturdy 
little  lad  in  his  arms,  a  second  edition  of  himself 
in  miniature.  After  just  hearing  his  story,  is  it  any 
wonder  I  gazed  with  such  interest  at  the  pictured 
faces  of  the  principal  actors  in  what  might  have 
been  such  a  tragedy  but  for  the  intervention  of  the 
noble  old  man  at  my  side? 

He  handed  me  the  letter  received  that  day,  and 
I  read: 

"Dear  old  friend: — I  am  sending  you  the  latest 
of  Tom,  Jr.,  and  his  dad.  The  picture  speaks  for 
itself. 

"Just  a  year  ago  today  since  I  reached  home; 
home!  It  seems  ages  ago,  and  yet  but  yesterday, 
that  I  stepped  unannounced  into  the  home  picture 
of  Edith, — my  poor  little  girl-mother, — holding  a 
cooing  baby  in  her  arms, — my  son! — of  whose  ex 
istence  I  did  not  even  know !  O,  the  self  reproach 
and  misery  that  was  mine! 

"My  pride — my  foolish,  crazy  pride — broke  then, 
and  my  heart  with  it,  as  I  dropped  to  my  knees  be 
side  my  poor  little  girl,  who  had  been  left  to  pass 
through  that  soul  testing  battle, — for  my  sake,— 
alone!  How  I  begged  her  to  forgive  me — yet  I  can 
never  forgive  myself! — as  I  took  them  both  in  my 
arms.  And  before  I  arose  from  my  knees,  I  thanked 

33 


Old  Jud  Watkins 

God  for  the  good  friend  out  there  in  the  far  west 
who  had  helped  bring  about  this  awakening  of  my 
real  self.  If  you  never  did  another  act  of  kindness 
in  your  life,  this  one  alone  has  earned  you  heaven. 
God  bless  you ! 

"Your  grateful  friend,  TOM." 


34 


"The  Other  Kind" 

The  short  September  day  was  near  its  close. 
Three-year  old  Milly  was  asleep  on  a  roll  of  wraps 
at  her  mother's  feet;  but  Johnnie  and  Helen  and 
Arthur  and  Catherine  were  still  trying  to  keep  pace 
with  their  mother  in  pulling  the  hops  from  the  pole- 
embracing  vines,  when  a  strange  man  came  up  to 
their  box. 

"My  name  is  Brown,"  he  brusquely  stated.  "I 
am  the  owner  of  these  hop-fields."  For  awhile  he 
watched  the  workers  in  silence,  as  if  reluctant  to 
carry  out  his  purpose.  "I  have  a  message  for  you, 
madam,"  he  finally  said.  "I  have  been  notified  by 
the  sheriff  that  I  am  violating  the  child-labor  law 
by  permitting  children  under  twelve  to  pick  hops, 
so  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you  that  your  children  will 
have  to  quit." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Brewster  was  stunned.  Dur 
ing  the  whole  summer  her  children  had  earned 
enough  in  the  berry  fields  to  pay  the  family  expenses 
thus  enabling  her  to  save  her  earnings  for  the  time, 
near  at  hand,  when  she  would  be  the  only  bread 
winner.  The  few  weeks  remaining  of  hop-picking 
would  not  amount  to  much,  but  the  future  without 
the  help  of  the  busy  little  hands  looked  very  dark 
indeed.  "It's  pretty  hard,"  she  said,  "when  a 
mother  has  to  do  it  all." 

"Are  you  a  widow?"  asked  the  man,  softened  by 
the  plaintive  answer. 

35 


"The   Other   Kind" 

"No,"  Mrs.  Brewster  faltered,  "but  I  am  all  alone 
for  the  present, — my  husband  went  away  a  year 
ago  to  find  steady  employment — and  I  don't  know 
when  he'll  return." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Brown.  "Well,  we 
passed  the  mother's  aid  law  for  just  such  women  as 
you.  Why  don't  you  apply  for  a  pension  with  pro 
vision  for  these  children?" 

Mrs.  Brewster  gave  an  upward  toss  of  her  head. 
"I  am  not  one  of  that  kind !"  she  flared.  "I  neither 
accept  charity  nor  allow  my  children  to  do  so ! 
However  hard  they  work  and  whatever  privation 
they  suffer,  they  shall  not  be  cheated  out  of  their 
birthright  of  independence  as  long  as  I  have  the 
power  to  prevent  it." 

"That's  just  my  style,"  applauded  Mr.  Brown. 
"It's  the  good  old-fashioned  spirit  that  turned  out 
men  and  women  of  backbone  instead  of  the  weak- 
kneed,  spineless  specimens  of  these  days.  Why,  if 
things  go  on  as  they  are  it  won't  be  long  before  one- 
half  of  the  people  will  be  supporting  the  other  half." 

Mrs.  Brewster  had  not  stopped  working,  and  the 
children,  with  the  thoroughness  of  an  army  of  cater 
pillars,  had  stripped  their  side  of  the  pole  while  she 
cleaned  off  hers.  "Huh,  this  ain't  work!"  put  in 
laughing-eyed  Johnnie.  "It's  fun  to  earn  your  own 
sweaters  and  things.  When  I  go  back  to  school," 
he  added  with  a  glance  at  his  patched  rags,  "I'll 
have  everything  new." 

"Your  kids  don't  seem  to  be  suffering  from  over 
work,"  grinned  Mr.  Brown,  "they're  as  sunny  and 
sassy  as  so  many  dandelions." 

36 


"The    Other   Kind" 

"That's  just  what  I  want  them  to  be,"  laughed 
the  mother — "and  not  only  as  sunny  and  'sassy,' 
but  as  vigorous  and  pushing  and  clean, — and  as  in 
dependent,  too!" 

"S'pose  you'll  go  on  picking?  the  man  inquired 
as  he  turned  to  go. 

"No,  I  couldn't  do  more  than  earn  our  expenses, 
working  alone,"  was  the  regretful  reply,  "so  we 
may  as  well  go  home." 

Before  noon  the  next  days,  Mrs.  Brewster  with 
her  bunch  of  "dandelions,"  was  in  the  city — all 
elated  to  the  lightness  of  the  airy  balloons  of  their 
prototypes  at  being  even  so  insigniflcent  a  part  of 
splendid  Seattle.  As  they  approached  their  own 
three-room  dwelling  in  the  outskirts,  so  homelike  in 
its  envelope  of  vines, — the  recreant  father  had  not 
left  them  homeless, — Johnnie  ran  ahead.  "Hello, 
a  letter!"  he  cried  as  he  opened  the  door.  "Guess 
it's  from  Papa !" 

Mrs.  Brewster  coming  up  and  hearing  the  word, 
"papa,"  snatched  the  letter,  her  face  alight  with 
expectation.  "Huh,  nothing  but  a  city  notice!" 
she  sighed.  "Hope  it's  not  another  assessment.  But 
that's  just  what  it  is,"  she  declared,  after  a  glance 
at  the  brief  contents.  "Twelve  dollars  on  that 
boulevard  twenty  blocks  away  that  we  shall  never 
even  see.  It  does  seem  as  if  the  folks  that  ride  in 
automobiles  ought  to  pay  for  their  own  roads !" 

"It  looks  as  if  we  was  handin'  out  charity  to 
them,"  asserted  Johnnie,  "and  I  should  think 
they'd  be  ashamed  to  take  it !" 

37 


"The   Other   Kind" 

"That's  so,  my  boy,"  agreed  the  mother,  recover 
ing  her  spirit,  "but  I  would  far  rather  give  than  re 
ceive  even  if  it  does  pinch  us  a  little.  The  satis 
faction  of  living  without  charitable  aid  is  life-long, 
while  the  miseries  of  want  are  only  for  the  time 
being.  But  I  hope  Papa  will  come  home  before  this 
assessment  is  due,"  she  smiled. 

Then  the  routine  for  the  winter  began.  Milly  was 
sent  to  a  neighbor's  while  the  other  four  were  in 
school,  and  Mrs.  Brewster  toiled  in  a  laundry,  won 
dering  and  worrying  about  what  the  "kiddies"  were 
doing  all  day  without  her  care.  The  home  washing 
and  sewing  she  did  at  night,  leaving  the  children 
to  manage  the  rest. 

"We're  getting  along  famously,"  she  declared  one 
day,  as  the  united  family  were  eating  their  supper 
of  pea-soup  and  corn-bread.  "If  this  keeps  up  we 
may  be  able  to  afford  a  visit  from  Santa  Glaus ;  the 
old  fellow  isn't  very  fond  of  poor  folks,  you  know." 

"Is  us  poor  folks,  mamma?"  asked  Catherine  in 
dismay. 

Mrs.  Brewster  thought  a  moment.  "Well,  no," 
she  soothingly  replied,  "we're  rich  enough  in  every 
thing  but  money." 

That  very  night  a  part  of  their  riches  took  flight. 
Milly  came  down  with  the  measles.  Of  course  it 
ran  through  the  family  and  when  quarantine  was 
raised,  the  devoted  mother  became  ill.  Too  weak  to 
rise,  she  lay  on  her  hard  bed  and  sighed  her  heart 
out  with  the  deadly  fear  of  having  to  ask  for  aid. 
"I'd  rather  see  my  children  dead  than  eating  the 
bread  of  paupers,"  was  the  goading  reflection,  that 

38 


"The   Other   Kind" 

like  some  disease-repressing  medicament,  reduced 
her  almost  to  the  verge  of  the  grave  before  its  tonic 
effects  began  to  be  felt.  But  at  last  the  children 
laughed  again  to  see  her  about  the  house. 

The  day  before  Christmas,  propped  up  in  a  chair, 
she  was  making  a  necktie  for  Johnnie's  present, 
when  her  proud  independence  was  put  to  the  se 
verest  test.  An  automobile  stopped  before  the 
house.  All  the  children  but  Milly  were  at  a  neigh 
boring  playground,  so  Mrs.  Brewster  tottered  to  the 
door.  A  glance  through  the  glass  panel  told  her 
what  was  coming.  A  large  auto-dray,  loaded  to  its 
capacity,  stood  at  the  curb,  and  two  men  with  arms 
filled  to  overflowing  were  already  on  the  porch. 

"Some  one  has  reported  that  we  are  destitute," 
was  the  thought  that  burned  through  her  mind, 
"and  we  are  not.  We  still  have  food  and  fuel !"  Her 
face  was  no  longer  pale  when  she  opened  the  door. 
"There  has  been  some  mistake,"  she  said  to  the  fore 
most  lieutenant  of  charity. 

"I  have  your  name  and  address,  madam,"  was  the 
firm  reply.  "There  can't  be  any  mistake." 

"Well,  I  ought  to  know,"  flared  the  resolute 
woman.  "I  never  sent  my  name  to  your  paper  and 
no  one  else  had  a  right  to !" 

"You  may  as  well  have  the  things,  anyway," 
smiled  the  man. 

Mrs.  Brewster  thought  of  the  bare  cupboard  and 
the  tiny  heap  of  coal  in  the  bin, — and  wavered.  But 
it  was  only  for  an  instant.  "You'll  have  plenty  of 
use  for  them,"  she  said,  and  quickly  closed  the  door, 
shutting  out  her  part  of  the  bounty  that  a  sympa- 

39 


"The   Other   Kind" 

thetic  newspaper  had  collected  from  a  generous  pub 
lic  to  relieve  the  city's  destitute.  "God  forgive  me 
if  I  have  done  wrong!"  she  silently  prayed,  as  she 
led  Milly  back  to  hover  over  the  stove. 

The  next  morning  dawned  sunny  and  mild,  and 
laughter  and  shouts  of  "Merry  Christmas !"  rang  as 
merrily  through  the  Brewster  household  as  through 
a  palace.  The  mother's  poor  little  presents  had  been 
joyously  received  and  the  children  were  decking 
themselves  in  their  made-over  finery,  when  a  heavy 
step  was  heard  outside.  Fearful  that  it  might  be 
another  emissary  of  charity,  Mrs.  Brewster  started 
to  turn  him  away,  but  was  too  slow.  The  door  was 
pushed  open  and  the  visitor  burst  into  the  room. 
"Hello !  Merry  Christmas !"  he  shouted. 

"It's  Santa  Taus !"  crowed  Milly,  seeing  only  the 
arms  and  pockets  filled  with  mysterious  packages 
and  not  recognizing  her  father  so  opportunely  re 
turned. 

"We're  all  right,  now,"  shouted  the  man  as  soon 
as  the  jubilee  was  over.  "I've  got  a  steady  job  on 
a  big  farm  and  a  shack  to  live  in  and— 

"That's  glorious,  Jack,"  cried  the  wife,  too  de 
lighted  to  wait  for  all  the  good  news.  "We  won't 
mind  the  hardest  work — if  only  we  can  always  save 
our  self-respect!  We're  not  the  'charity'  kind!" 


40 


Reconciled 


Florence  Crichton,  when  a  mere  child,  used  to 
watch  from  her  home  on  a  hill,  the  entrance  of  ves 
sels  to  the  harbor  of  Seattle,  and  she  claimed  the 
finest  of  them  and  the  harbor  itself  as  her  own. 

With  the  coming  of  the  automobile  and  the 
growth  of  the  city,  boulevards  were  built  to  one 
place  and  then  to  another.  She  grew  with  their 
growth,  and  from  playing  the  game  of  appropriating 
all  the  beautiful  things  she  saw,  she  came  to  live 
the  game.  The  first  time  her  father  took  her  out 
on  the  boulevard  overlooking  Lake  Washington,  she 
claimed  the  lake,  twenty-five  miles  long,  as  her  own. 
And  as  they  followed  the  drive  into  the  deep  green 
woods,  across  bridges  that  spanned  tiny  brooklets 
and  great  ravines  and  then  swung  out  again  into 
the  open,  the  great  stretch  of  water  below  them— 
with  its  background  of  fir  trees,  and  beyond,  the 
glorious  Cascade  Mountains,  all  seemed  to  her  a 
picture  arranged  for  the  sole  purpose  of  complet 
ing  the  joy  of  that  wonderful  drive. 

The  summer  she  finished  her  junior  year  at  the 
University,  a  fine  road  to  Mount  Rainier  was  com 
pleted,  and  she  was  included  in  the  first  party  to 
drive  over  it.  As  the  party  left  their  machines  and 
climbed  to  a  pinnacle  nearby,  she  claimed,  in  her 
accustomed  manner,  the  mountain  as  her  own,  and 
loved  it. 

41 


Reconciled 

An  untried  optimist,  she  responded  with  love  to 
the  native  beauties  of  her  birthplace,  as  simply  and 
naturally  as  a  bird  greets  with  song  the  dawn  of 
day  in  the  spring  time. 

And  as  she  stood  on  this  pinnacle,  drinking  in  the 
beauties  of  the  surrounding  valleys,  it  seemed  quite 
fitting  that  Harold  Comer  should  declare  his  love 
and  ask  her  to  become  his  wife.  There  on  the  moun 
tain  top  she  made  her  vows  of  love,  and  as  she  de 
scended  the  mountain,  hand  in  hand  with  her  lover, 
the  old,  old  story,  ever  new,  glorified  her  face  as  in 
all  time  it  has  glorified  the  face  of  maiden. 

A  year  later,  preparations  for  the  wedding  be 
gan.  Florence's  life,  thus  far,  had  been  one  long 
dream  of  delight.  She  had  walked  in  perpetual 
sunshine,  a  sunshine  of  love  and  happy  dreams. 
But  one  week  before  the  day  set  for  the  wedding 
her  first  cloud  appeared  suddenly,  out  of  a  clear 
sky.  And  swiftly  the  tempest  followed. 

For  the  first  time,  illness  assailed  her.  After  a 
few  days  of  agonized  suspense,  and  anxious  weeks 
of  slow  recovery,  a  consultation  resulted  in  the  an 
nouncement  that  she  would  soon  be  all  right  with 
the  exception  of  her  right  arm, — it  was  paralyzed. 

This,  her  first  trial,  the  first  test  of  her  strength 
was  met,  by  this  erstwhile  optimist,  with  blank 
despair. 

And  when  Harold,  overjoyed  with  her  recovery, 
hurried  to  her  exclaiming,  "We'll  be  so  happy,  Little 
Sweetheart!  We  shall  not  mind  this  small  afflic 
tion,"  her  studied  haughtiness  was  pathetic. 

42 


Reconciled 

"Is  it  then  so  small  a  matter  that  the  best  medical 
authority  in  the  country  has  pronounced  me  a  life 
long  cripple?"  she  questioned. 

"But  oh,  my  Princess,"  he  laughed.  "It  will  be 
my  privilege  to  serve — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  another  attempt  at 
haughtiness.  "Do  you  think  then,  that  I  am  the 
kind  of  girl  to  burden  the  man  I  love,  and  spoil  his 
career  with  the  care  of  a  crippled  wife?  Oh,  can 
you  not  see  that  everything  is  changed?  We  had 
made  such  beautiful  plans,  and  now,  look  at  this." 

She  tragically  lifted  with  the  fingers  of  the  left 
hand,  the  poor  limp  member  which  hung  helpless 
whichever  way  she  turned  it. 

"And  more  than  this."  She  stopped  him  with  a 
gesture  when  he  would  have  spoken.  "Perhaps  you 
can  not  understand,  but  two  months  ago  this  was 
all  mine."  And  she  made  an  eloquent  gesture  to 
ward  the  panorama  seen  from  the  window.  "Look 
at  the  tints  on  the  water,  and  on  the  Olympics,  be 
hind  which  the  sun  has  just  disappeared.  And 
look  at  Mount  Eainier.  Oh,  Harold,  it  rained  last 
night  and  the  air  is  as  clear  as  it  was  in  June. 
Then  this  picture  was  all  mine.  I  lived  in  it  and 
loved  it.  Every  breath  of  mine  was  a  response  to 
the  beauty  and  joy  of  it. 

"But  now,  I  look  at  my  beautiful  landscape  and 
it  mocks  me.  The  sunlight  dances  gaily  on  the 
water,  and  Rainier,  my  mountain,  my  beloved  moun 
tain  cries,  'Aha!  1  am  yours  no  more.'  The  whole 
picture  just  screams  at  me,  'You  are  finished.  We 

43 


Reconciled 

care  nothing  for  your  misery!     We  are  just  as 
beautiful — just  as  complete  without  your  joy.' ' 

"Oh  yes,"  she  continued  rapidly,  fearing  an  in 
terruption,  "my  career  was  a  happy  one  while  it 
lasted.  But  'tis  ended  and  in  going  down  I  shall 
not  take  you  with  me.  No  half-way  measures  are 
possible.  I  can  not  see  you  again." 

Again  he  would  have  spoken  but  she  stopped  him 
and  continued,  "I  am  going  to  ask  my  father  to  let 
me  go  away  for  a  while  until  I  get  used  to  this, 
and  learn  to  live  this  other  life.  Meantime  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  try  to  see  me.  Go  and  leave  me  now." 

He  kissed  the  top  of  the  bowed  head  and  laid  his 
cheek  against  it.  "My  poor  little  sweetheart,"  he 
said.  "Such  foolish  sick  fancies  are  not  like  you." 

But  she  shrank  from  him,  pleading:  "Don't, 
don't  make  it  any  harder.  I  can  not  bear  it." 

With  another  soft  kiss  on  her  hair,  and  a  gentle 
pat,  he  assured  her,  "Yes  Dearie,  I  will  go.  You 
are  all  wrong.  I  shall  not  argue  now,  but  I  know 
your  love  is  not  going  to  change  for  a  foolish  whim. 
You  will  soon  be  yourself  again  and  all  will  be 
well." 

And  he  departed,  not  doubting  that  she  would 
feel  differently  very  soon.  But  despite  the  plead 
ings  of  her  family,  she  would  not  see  him  again,  nor 
open  his  letters.  And  at  last  they  yielded  to  her 
persuasion  to  let  her  go  to  New  York. 

It  was  three  years  later  when  she  returned,  with 
the  bitterness  in  her  heart  grown  still  more  bitter. 
She  had  cemented  with  self-pity  the  wall  of  unhap- 

44 


Reconciled 

piness  about  her.  Suffering  had  clouded  her  eyes, 
and  hardened  the  soft  curves  of  her  lips. 

The  week  following  her  return,  her  dearest  friend 
was  to  marry  Harold's  brother.  She  refused  to  act 
as  bridesmaid, — Harold  was  to  be  best  man, — but 
she  could  not  refuse  to  attend  the  wedding.  She 
greeted  Harold  coldly,  but  could  not  hide  from 
him  the  signs  of  her  misery. 

As  her  family  and  friends  were  all  in  league 
against  her,  it  was  perhaps  not  entirely  accidental 
that  during  the  evening  she  found  herself  alone 
with  Harold  on  the  veranda  overlooking  Lake 
Washington.  Fortune  smiled  upon  Harold  as  he 
stepped  to  her  side.  For  at  that  moment  the  moon 
peeped  from  behind  a  cloud,  and  bathed  the  lake, 
the  mountain  and  woods  in  its  glorious  light.  Re 
treat  was  impossible,  so  for  a  moment  she  stood, 
staring  into  eyes  filled  with  the  old-time  love.  Then 
she  looked  out  over  the  lake,  the  glory  of  the  moon 
light  upon  it  seeming  from  this  distance  to  be 
something  almost  spiritual  in  its  beauty. 

For  a  long  time  they  stood  thus,  the  silence  be 
tween  them  tense,  while  the  bitterness,  false  pride 
and  wretchedness  in  her  heart  struggled  desperately 
against  the  melting  warmth  of  love,  an  unnamed 
gladness  and  the  scenes  so  welcome  to  her  home 
sick  heart. 

At  last  he  spoke  gently,  and  as  if  continuing 
their  conversation  of  three  years  past.  "Yes,  this 
and  the  view  from  your  father's  windows  were 
yours.  In  the  goodness  of  your  heart  you  loved  the 
pictures  and  did  homage  to  the  Maker.  But,  for- 

45 


Reconciled 

give  me  if  I  seem  brutal,  with  your  first  misfortune 
you  forsook  your  better  self,  your  love  and  your 
homage.  And,  must  I  say  it? — you  deserted  me  be 
cause  of  your  wounded  pride." 

Again  the  silence  was  tense.  Again  he  spoke,  and 
his  voice  rang  with  love  and  pain.  "Florence  my 
love,  you  can  not  remain  false  to  both  of  us." 

Once  more  there  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then 
"Yes,  false  to  both,"  she  repeated.  "That  is  it." 
And  she  turned  to  him  a  face  radiant  with  joy. 
"Look  at  this,"  and  again  she  made  an  eloquent, 
sweeping  gesture.  "I  know  now  that  I  was  wrong. 
God's  world  was  calling  me  to  live  life  bravely 
and  to  know  myself.  And  I  was  afraid.  I  could 
not  understand. 

"But  now,  with  the  homesickness  gone,  and  all 
this  loved  scene  before  me,  and — the  wedding — and 
all — and — you — so — near,  my  panic  and  blindness 
have  gone  like  magic.  I  know  now  that  I  shall 
never  again  be  afraid  of  life.  Oh  I  feel  again  the 
old  throb  of  life  and  joy.  Harold — ' 

But  Harold  was  staring — amazed.  And  follow 
ing  his  gaze,  she  too  stared.  They  were  looking  at 
her  right  hand,  which  unconsciously  she  had  lifted 
high  in  air,  this  time  without  the  aid  of  strong 
fingers. 


46 


"Rock  of  Ages" 

Mary  Ann  Baggs  was  in  front  of  the  cabin  clean 
ing  two  guns.  Joash  had  planned  to  clean  them 
that  morning,  but  a  summons  to  court  had  come 
the  evening  before,  and  he  was  off  in  his  boat  to 
the  main-land,  on  an  unexpected  trip,  so  Mary  Ann 
had  promised  to  clean  the  guns.  They  said  on 
Vashon  that  Mary  Ann  was  "mighty  handy;"  she 
could  row,  fish,  and  hunt  as  well  as  any  man  on 
the  island,  and  she  kept  her  cabin  neat  and  her 
children  clean. 

She  Avas  a  strong,  capable  Avoman.  Her  old  sun- 
bonnet  was  pushed  back  on  her  head,  and  her  dark 
hair  and  bright  eyes  added  to  her  interesting  per 
sonality. 

The  winter  before  a  revival  had  been  held  in  the 
little  school-house.  Mary  Ann  had  come  under 
conviction  and  got  religion.  It  was  the  real  thing 
with  her.  She  had  a  Bible  and  she  read  it;  and 
had  taught  her  children  the  ten  commandments  and 
the  Lord's  Prayer. 

This  morning  as  she  worked  she  was  humming 
to  herself  "Rock  of  Ages,"  and  thinking  of  the  ser 
mon  of  the  previous  Sabbath.  The  text  had  been 
"Deliver  us  from  evil."  As  she  sang  and  worked 
her  eyes  Avandered  often  to  the  waters  of  the  sound 
rippling  in  the  morning  sunshine.  The  tide  Avas  in 
and  the  waves  lapped  gently  against  the  jagged 

47 


"Rock  of  Ages" 

rocks  that  rose  as  a  natural  barrier  about  the  open 
space  in  front  of  the  cabin. 

Back  of  the  cabin  stretched  the  great  forest  of 
tall  Washington  pines  and  firs;  the  voices  of  the 
children  came  from  the  edge  of  it  where  they  were 
playing. 

Plenty  of  tradition  hung  over  the  lonely  spot. 
The  pioneers  on  the  mainland  still  related  tales  of 
Indian  orgies  on  the  island,  and  of  a  certain  cove 
called  "Smugglers'  Cove."  Even  now  the  peaceful 
atmosphere  was  threatened.  For  months  past  a 
band  of  lawless  men  had  been  operating  along  the 
coast,  committing  robberies  and  depredations,  with 
the  island  as  their  rendezvous.  Recently  the 
island  itself  had  been  the  scene  of  a  dastardly  deed. 
Not  half  a  mile  from  where  Mary  Ann  stood  was 
the  deserted  cabin  of  old  man  Lumley.  He  was 
known  to  have  money  and  had  been  robbed  and 
murdered  by  members  of  the  band.  Clint  Boyd,  the 
leader,  had  been  caught  and  jailed.  His  examina 
tion  was  now  in  progress.  Joash  had  gone  as  a  wit 
ness  for  the  prosecution.  Meanwhile  the  rest  of  the 
band  were  still  at  large,  threatening  vengeance.  A 
rumor  had  come  that  some  of  them  had  been  seen 
a  mile  or  two  away. 

Mary  Ann  was  a  strong  advocate  of  peace  at  all 
times ;  but  Joash  believed  that  "forewarned  is  fore 
armed." 

The  sun  rose  higher;  the  guns  were  about  fin 
ished;  the  children  had  come  from  play  and  were 
watching  their  mother. 

48 


"Rock  of  Ages" 

A  man  on  horseback  came  suddenly  round  the 
bend  in  the  narrow  roadway  leading  up  from  the 
shore.  He  was  followed  by  another;  and  at  once 
two  more  came  into  view.  Mary  Ann  gave  one 
look.  "The  Boyd  gang,  sure  enough!"  she  said 
under  her  breath,  "but  Joash  isn't  here.  Praise  the 
Lord !"  Then  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  old  wallet 
behind  the  loosened  bricks  of  the  chimney.  It  con 
tained  their  savings  to  buy  the  bit  of  cleared  land 
adjacent  to  their  own  holding.  Outwardly  she  was 
calm.  She  picked  up  the  guns  and  with  Seth  and 
Hetty  close  at  her  heels,  walked  to  the  little  veran 
dah  in  front  of  the  cabin. 

The  men  dismounted,  tied  their  horses  to  the 
fence,  and  entered  the  yard.  The  foremost,  evi 
dently  the  leader,  came  rapidly  towards  the  steps. 
He  wore  brown  corduroy  trousers  and  a  black  shirt. 
His  trousers  were  tucked  into  high  boots  in  typical 
western  fashion ;  on  his  head  was  a  slouch  hat.  His 
face  was  dark  and  determined. 

Mary  Ann  placed  the  guns  against  the  side  of  the 
house  and  turned  to  greet  him. 

"Somethin'  to  eat  and  that  mighty  quick,  woman; 
set  out  some  bread  and  bacon  and  make  the  coffee 
strong;  now  get  a  gait  on  ye.  We're  hungry  men 
and  no  time  to  fool.  Must  be  out  o'  here  in  twenty 
minutes."  Without  replying,  Mary  Ann  disap 
peared  into  the  cabin,  quickly  prepared  the  food, 
set  it  forth  on  the  deal  table,  and  called  the  men. 
They  filed  in,  a  ruffianly-looking  lot. 

As  they  sat  down,  Mary  Ann,  standing  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  said  quietly:  "Gentlemen,  we 

49 


"Rock  of  Ages" 

allus  have  the  blessin'  before  we  eat,"  then  she 
folded  her  toil-worn  hands,  closed  her  eyes,  and  in 
a  solemn  voice  began  the  Lord's  prayer.  Hetty  and 
Seth  stood  on  either  side  of  their  mother,  and  from 
force  of  habit  mingled  their  childish  voices  with 
hers. 

"Cut  it  out,"  began  one  of  the  men,  but  stopped 
at  a  look  from  the  leader. 

The  petition  finished,  the  men  in  awed  silence  ate 
rapidly  and  voraciously.  Again  and  again  Mary 
Ann  filled  up  their  plates.  Suddenly  the  leader  ex 
claimed  :  "Time's  up,  boys,"  and  they  rose  from  the 
table.  Mary  Ann's  heart  stood  still. 

The  leader  turned  towards  her.  "I  want  ye  to 
know  that  we  ain't  much  on  religion,  but  we  do 
know  a  brave  woman  when  we  see  one.  It  ain't  in 
our  minds  to  harm  ye  or  the  young  'uns,  and  we  are 
obleeged  for  the  provisions." 

With  these  words  he  strode  through  the  door  and 
down  the  path.  He  was  followed  by  the  other  men 
and  they  mounted  and  rode  away. 

Mary  Ann  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  silence 
looking  down  the  way  they  had  taken.  Then  she 
brought  the  guns  in,  put  them  in  their  places  in 
the  rack  near  the  ceiling  and  went  about  her  work. 
As  she  worked,  she  sang,  softly, 

"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee." 


50 


Deserted 


"What  is  that  you  say,  Betty?" 

"The  railroad  is  coming,"  exclaimed  Betty.  "Jack 
just  returned  from  The  Dalles.  He  was  talking 
with  the  men.  They  are  building  rapidly  this  way. 
Now  if  they  buy  your  land,  father,  for  the  depot 
site  and  pay  for  the  right  of  way  through  here,  our 
fortunes  will  be  made." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  said,  "Yes,  if 
they  will.  We  have  waited  for  so  long,  Betty,  I 
have  lost  faith  in  that  Northern  Pacific  Railroad 
Company.  Your  mother  was  just  a  slip  of  a  girl,  not 
as  old  as  you  are,  when  we  filed  on  our  homestead, 
and  here  we  have  lived  and  waited  for  the  railroad 
all  these  years.  How  many  loads  I  have  hauled  to 
The  Dalles  and  back  again  in  that  time !  I  do  hope 
I've  hauled  my  last  one." 

The  old  man  walked  to  the  end  of  the  porch  and 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  stood  looking  to 
ward  the  Old  Town  gap.  "There  is  no  other  way 
to  get  through  the  foothills  except  through  that  gap, 
its  got  to  go  through  my  land !  "I  don't  mind  for 
myself,  I  have  gotten  used  to  it.  But  if  mother's 
hopes  could  be  realized,"  he  mused.  "If  Ben  could 
finish  his  college  course  and  she  could  go  back  to 
see  him  get  his  sheepskin.  Bless  her,  she  has  never 
been  back  to  her  old  home  since  we  left  on  our 
honey-moon  trip  to  take  a  homestead  in  Washington 

51 


Deserted 

Territory.    What  a  brave  little  girl  she  has  been," 
thought  the  old  man. 

Spring  had  come  very  early  that  year,  in  fact 
there  had  been  very  little  winter  weather  and  now 
the  garden  was  filled  with  blooming  flowers.  A 
long  row  of  hollyhocks  stood  guard  between  the 
flowers  and  the  vegetable  garden.  Back  of  the  veg 
etable  garden  a  row  of  tall  trees  made  a  wind-break, 
from  which  the  breezes  wafted  the  sweet  odor  of 
the  balm  buds.  Clover  in  blossom  along  the  irri 
gating  ditches  filled  the  air  with  its  fragrance. 
The  little  town  on  the  river  was  filled  with  blos 
soms,  both  wild  and  cultivated,  for  these  old  set 
tlers  were  lovers  of  beauty  and  had  taken  time  to 
grow  flowers  and  vines  in  profusion.  Every  house 
was  covered  with  climbing  roses,  and  although 
there  were  few  tea  roses  and  bulbs,  there  were  all 
the  old-fashioned  flowers  and  some  of  the  newest 
and  latest  things  from  the  East. 

Betty  ran  back  to  her  own  home  across  the 
street  and  the  pioneer  went  into  the  house  to  talk 
it  all  over  with  his  wife. 

As  she  had  just  finished  her  work  for  the  day, 
they  walked  out  into  the  garden,  talking  of  the 
prosperity  that  would  come  with  the  railroad.  As 
they  passed  the  bed  of  white  daisies,  she  stooped 
and  gathered  a  handful  and  said,  "Ben,  can't  you 
see  little  Margaret  sitting  there  in  the  grass  making 
her  daisy  chain?  Its  twenty-five  years  since  we 
laid  her  away,  and  I  never  see  those  daisies  with 
out  seeing  her." 

52 


Deserted 

"Yes,"  said  the  father,  "she  looked  just  like  you, 
blue  eyes  and  golden  hair.  I  can't  get  over  wishing 
we  could  have  kept  her." 

They  walked  on  to  the  honeysuckle  arbor  and 
set  talking  of  their  young  life  together.  "Here, 
Jack  courted  Betty.  How  happy  they  have  been. 
And  over  there  under  the  sunflowers  little  Ben  had 
his  garden,"  said  his  mother. 

They  watched  the  setting  sun  paint  the  dull  gray 
foothills  gorgeous  red  and  gold  and  then  drop 
down  behind  the  mountains. 

What  dreams  filled  the  mother's  mind  as  she 
slipped  away  in  slumber  that  night,  dreams  of  see 
ing  her  son  graduate  from  the  State  University 
where  she  had  attended  school,  and  where  her  old 
school-mate's  son  was  studying  now. 

What  a  beautiful  world  it  was  to  her  that  night 
as  she  planned  her  trip  and  visit  with  the  old  friends 
of  her  girlhood  days. 

"I  told  you  so,  Benjamin,  'All  things  come  to  him 
who  waits.' ' 

"Yes,  if  you  wait  long  enough,"  said  the  old  man. 

The  weeks  flew  by  on  wings  of  hope.  The  whole 
village  was  in  a  flutter  of  excitement.  The  rail 
road  official  had  been  there  the  day  before  trying 
to  make  a  deal  for  the  depot  site,  but  as  corpora 
tions  have  no  souls,  the  fact  of  the  destiny  of  many 
lives  had  no  weight. 

The  official  wrote  hurriedly  in  his  notebook,  "Old 
Yakima  depot  site  too  high  priced,"  and  ordered 
the  engineers  to  go  on  four  miles  north  of  the  old 

53 


Deserted 

Yakima  site  and  lay  out  a  new  town  in  the  sage 
brush. 

The  old  settlers  called  a  meeting  in  the  church. 
What  did  this  mean?  How  could  the  railroad  pass 
through  the  town  and  not  have  a  depot? 

The  mystery  was  explained  by  a  railroad  official 
who  caine  in  a  few  weeks  and  announced  that  the 
company  was  ready  to  move  every  house  off  its 
foundation  up  to  a  new  lot  in  the  new  town  of 
North  Yakima,  which  the  railroad  company  had 
laid  out. 

The  women  huddled  together  with  tears  in  their 
eyes.  "Must  we  leave  our  flowers,  our  lawns,  our 
shade  trees  and  our  berries  and  fruit  and  go  up 
there  to  live  in  the  sage  brush?  Not  a  blade  of 
green  grass,  nothing  to  be  seen  but  sand  and  sage 
brush  for  miles  around !" 

The  younger  men  said,  "We  have  no  choice,  the 
railroad  will  make  the  new  town  and  kill  the  old 
one." 

New  comers  were  already  arriving  at  the  new 
town  site.  Lots  were  selling  rapidly.  There  was 
no  time  to  stop  and  grieve.  In  a  few  days  only  a 
half  dozen  houses  were  left  standing.  A  few  of 
the  old  settlers  would  not  move  and  were  left  to 
tell  the  tale,  among  them  Benjamin  Brown  and 
his  wife. 

The  old  pioneer  said,  "Jack,  you  and  Betty  go, 
you  are  young  and  can  make  a  home  in  the  new 
town,  but  mother  and  I  will  stay  on  the  old  place. 
You  will  want  a  cool,  shady  place  to  spend  your 

54 


Deserted 

Sundays;  so  we  will  stay  here.  A  railroad  surely 
is  a  great  thing  when  it  can  make  or  unmake  a 
town  in  a  day.  Well !  one  generation  must  live 
for  the  next.  Our  children  will  all  be  rich  some 
day." 

His  prophecy  did  come  true,  for  Jack  opened  a 
real  estate  office  in  the  new  town  and  could  hardly 
handle  the  business.  The  new  town  was  wild  with 
excitement.  Sales  were  frequent,  with  the  same 
lots  being  turned  over  two  or  three  times,  each  time 
at  a  big  increase. 

Many  men  had  come  through  from  the  East  with 
the  first  train,  eager  to  take  up  homestead  claims: 
Shacks  sprang  up  like  mushrooms  in  the  night. 
Lumber  was  scarce,  but  tent  houses  with  board 
floors  were  put  up  by  the  hundreds.  Fortunes  were 
made  in  a  day  and  the  new  town  conquered  the 
desert  and  caused  it  "to  blossom  as  the  rose." 

Young  Ben  Brown  came  back  West  without  his 
diploma  and  was  elected  mayor  of  the  new  town  of 
North  Yakima.  "I  don't  see,"  said  his  proud 
father,  "but  Ben  gets  along  all  right  without  his 
diploma." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother,  "he  might  have  been 
president  of  the  United  States  some  day,  if  he  could 
have  graduated  with  his  class." 

In  the  old  town,  the  yards  and  gardens  filled  the 
air  with  their  sweetness,  but  the  blossoms  were  left 
to  fade  alone,  deserted.  The  birds  taught  their 
young  to  fly  unmolested  by  the  small  boy.  Only  a 

55 


Deserted 

few  old  couples  sat  on  their  porches  in  the  evening. 
They  looked  longingly  toward  the  North  Gap 
where  their  children  had  gone  to  build  a  new  city 
in  the  desert. 


56 


The  New  Word 

"There's  an  exquisite  suggestion !" 

The  exclamation  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  passenger 
on  the  slowly  moving  train.  Instantly  the  man's 
face  had  undergone  a  transformation.  The  deep, 
gray-blue  eyes  flashed  with  pleasure,  and  the 
corners  of  the  tightly-closed  mouth  softened  into 
something  that  hinted  of  delight. 

Pillowing  both  elbows  upon  his  knees,  he  con 
centrated  his  attention  upon  his  magazine.  Almost 
audibly  he  read  again :  "There  is  an  old  legend  that 
runs  something  like  this.  On  the  day  when  the 
Christ  toiled  on  that  upward  path,  with  heart  pal 
pitating  and  muscles  straining  under  His  burden, 
when  it  seemed  He  could  go  no  farther,  out  from 
the  shadow  stepped  the  sweet  Saint  Veronica,  Ten 
derly,  with  upturned  face,  and  with  lips  murmuring 
a  prayer,  she  drew  from  her  girdle  a  handkerchief, 
and  gently  and  lovingly  wiped  the  damp  brow  of  her 
Master.  And, — the  legend  has  it — when  she  held 
up  the  square  of  linen,  all  about  her  were  amazed 
and  awed  to  see  implanted  there  a  perfect  likeness 
of  the  Savior's  face." 

The  traveler  ceased  to  read,  but  he  did  not  move. 
Nor  did  he  arouse  from  his  revery  until  someone 

57 


The  New  Word 

near  him  uttered  a  low  cry  of  wonder.     Then  he 
turned  to  the  window. 

The  Northern  Pacific  train  was  threading  its  way 
over  the  Cascade  Divide,  and  they  were  passing 
through  a  fairyland  of  sunlight,  of  mountain  tops 
aglint  with  blinding  brightness  and  of  huge  fir  trees 
shouldering,  with  never  a  swerve,  their  burden  of 
ice  jewels.  The  light  that  shone  upon  the  eager 
young  face  as  he  read  the  legend,  was  intensified 
by  a  reflection  there  of  the  dazzling  beauty  without. 
The  Greatest  of  Magicians  had  surely  been  at  work. 
The  man  drew  a  deep  breath  that  was  full  of  the 
spice  that  only  the  pine  mountains  know.  He 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  he  smiled  out  upon 
the  glory  of  the  morning. 

But  the  train  was  beginning  to  descend  now,  and 
what  was  that  just  below  them?  No — but,  yes,  it 
must  be  a  cloud,  for  they  were  already  in  the  midst 
of  it.  Suddenly  drops  of  rain  beat  hard  and  fast 
upon  the  window  pane.  The  train  sped  on  swiftly 
through  a  thick  fog  to  the  Sound  city. 

The  smile  vanished  slowly  and  gradually  a  frown 
replaced  it.  After  thrusting  his  note-book  impati 
ently  into  his  pocket,  the  man  opened  the  bag  at 
his  feet  and  took  from  it  a  roll  of  type-written 
pages.  He  glanced  at  them  and  then  crammed  them 
back  into  the  valise  like  so  much  waste  paper. 

It  was  sometime  before  he  settled  himself  in  a 
restful  attitude.  Then  he  relaxed  and  mused  of  his 
journey's  end,  where  he  expected  to  find  the  girl  of 
his  dreams.  Soon  something  conjured  up  before 

58 


The  New  Word 

him  the  picture  of  a  girl  and  boy  walking  home 
together  from  the  rural  school  "in  those  dear  old 
golden  rule  days,  when  she  was  his  queen  in  calico, 
and  he  was  her  bashful,  bare-foot  beau."  He  saw 
them  later  in  Broadway  High  School  in  Seattle. 
And  still  again  his  mind's  eye  viewed  them  walking 
slowly  across  the  Washington  University  Campus. 
He  had  completed  his  journalistic  course,  and  was 
telling  her,  his  under  classmate  by  two  years,  good 
bye.  The  sweet  eyes  were  full  of  proud  tears,  for 
she  had  foreseen  great  things  ahead  for  him. 

Nearly  two  years  had  elapsed  since  he  had  seen 
the  girl  and  he  felt  that  he  could  wait  no  longer. 
But  what  was  he  taking  her?  Had  he  "won  his 
joust"?  Was  he  ready  to  go  to  her  and  ask  for 
that  wonderful  thing  that  he  knew  was  his?  Could 
he  face  her  with  a  traveling  bag  full  of  manuscript 
worn  with  marks  of  their  many  journeys?  A  posi 
tive  shrug  of  the  broad  shoulders  was  answer 
enough.  On  the  mountain  summit  he  had  been  tre 
mendously  uplifted,  first  by  the  startling  beauty  of 
the  old  legend,  and  again  by  the  sunlight  wealth 
of  the  Divide.  But  they  dropped  from  the  summit 
and  the  sunshine,  and  grasp  at  it  as  he  would,  the 
vision  slipped  away  and  failed  to  gild  for  him  the 
fog  and  the  rain.  He  knew  that  he  possessed  real 
ability  to  write.  He  knew  as  well  that  something 
was  lacking,  but  what  it  was — 

"Is  John  Gregory  in  this  car?"  The  words  were 
thundered  by  the  conductor.  Our  friend  nodded  in 

59 


The  New  Word 

recognition  and  received  the  yellow  envelope.  His 
blanched  face  soon  told  the  story.  He  could  not 
proceed  on  his  journey  to  the  girl. 

At  Auburn  a  tall,  stalwart  figure  swung  off  the 
step  before  the  car  stopped  and  took  the  first  train 
back  to  his  boy-hood  home  among  the  hills.  He 
found  the  brave  little  mother  very  near  death  but 
she  had  waited  for  her  boy.  Never  could  he  forget 
the  long  night  when  his  lips  endeavored  in  vain  to 
frame  a  prayer  out  of  the  depths  of  his  anguish. 
Forever  would  ring  in  his  memory  her  last  words 
of  faith  and  confidence  in  him.  "I  count  on  you, 
my  son,  to  fill  your  measure  of  a  man's  work  to  over 
flowing.  And  when  you  come  to  the  dark  places,  I 
shall  be  there  too,  and  my  arms  shall  enfold  you, 
and  when  you  come  to  the  high  places,  there  I  shall 
be  too  with  my  hand  in  yours."  And  then — she 
smiled — and  through  Eternity  would  linger  with 
him  the  wonder  of  it. 

The  next  day  he  made  a  path  to  the  woods,  far 
out  to  the  hills.  He  loved  the  companionship  of 
the  lone  bird's  call  and  the  wind  in  the  trees.  Be 
fore  many  days  the  spirit  of  the  woods  lured  him 
as  in  his  boyhood,  until  by  and  by  it  seemed  that 
a  silent  messenger  dwelt  in  those  bleak  places  and 
brought  him  peace. 

Then  before  he  knew  it,  spring  came  along.  Ever 
since  his  mother's  death,  he  had  been  working  with 
nervous  determination  upon  a  new  book.  He  traced 
his  first  inspiration  for  the  story  back  to  the  legend 
he  had  read  that  morning  on  the  mountain  summit. 

60 


The  New  Word 

But  it  was  the  mother's  smile  that  had  led  him  on, 
and  on,  until  his  subject  had  gripped  him  with  a 
feverish  energy,  and  now  the  book  was  well  under 
way. 

One  May  morning  he  followed  his  path  to  the 
woods.  The  south  wind  caressed  the  crisp,  wavy 
hair,  and  kissed  away  the  last  line  of  pain  from 
the  youthful  face.  All  about  him  there  gleamed 
and  sang  a  symphony  of  glory  and  life  and  glad 
ness.  And  rising  out  of  it  all,  he  seemed  to  see 
the  radiant  face  of  the  Besurrection  Angel  walking 
toward  him  in  shining  garments  and  with  out 
stretched  hands.  John  Gregory  bowed  his  head. 

But  what  fragrance  was  that  wafted  to  him  across 
the  violets?  It  must  be  from  that  wondrous  burst 
of  bloom  but  a  few  feet  away.  Could  it  be,  yes,  it 
was  the  very  shrub  that  a  few  weeks  ago  had  seemed 
absolutely  dead.  In  fact  he  had  doubted  greatly 
that  it  would  ever  live  again.  He  laughed  aloud  as 
he  touched  the  exquisite  thing  to  make  sure  it  was 
real.  The  pine  tops  forgot  their  diginity  and  bent 
and  swayed  to  the  rhythm  of  a  joyous  spring-song, 
and  it  wras  echoed  among  the  swelling  rhododendron 
buds  and  the  leaves  on  the  ash  trees. 

The  boughs  of  the  oak  wrhispered  to  him  of  cour 
age  and  strength,  and  told  him  a  wonderful  secret, 
that  at  that  very  moment  hundreds  of  dead-appear 
ing  acorns  were  sprouting  with  the  faith  that  they 
too  would  become  mighty  oaks.  The  clear  call  of 
a  lark  sounded  and  he  reached  up  both  arms  as  he 
moved  toward  it.  Happy  as  a  child  was  John 
Gregory  as  he  darted  from  this  to  that  new  delight. 

61 


The  New  Word 

He  was  relearning  the  secrets  of  root  and  mold 
and  leaf  and  flower  and  bird.  Flashes  and  glimmer 
ings  of  a  new  understanding  lifted  and  buoyed  him 
with  a  strange  consciousness.  He  saw  and  loved 
life  this  morning  as  never  before. 

But  what  was  that  gleam  of  color  yonder?  Ah, 
— the  first  wild  Iris!  How  often  he  and  the  girl 
had  gathered  them  near  this  same  stream!  How 
well  he  recalled  her  childish  delight  when  long  ago 
in  this  very  spot  he  had  told  her  what  Euskin  said 
of  the  Fleur-de-lis,  that  it  was  the  Flower  of  Chiv 
alry  "with  a  sword  for  its  leaf  and  a  lily  for  its 
heart."  He  smiled  tenderly  as  he  remembered  how 
their  young  hearts  had  thrilled  as  they  vied  in  re 
hearsing  for  each  other  the  stories  of  those  brave, 
pure-hearted  knights  of  old. 

Hereafter  this  flower  would  be  to  him  alwaj^s  a 
symbol  of  hope  and  faith.  It  should  stand  for  all 
that  he  had  learned  today.  There  was  a  mist  in 
the  man's  eyes  as  he  gathered  an  armful  of  the 
glorious  blue.  Keluctantly  he  turned  toward  home, 
but  he  carried  with  him  hidden  among  the  blossoms 
something  more  priceless  than  gold. 

It  was  Commencement  week  at  the  University. 
The  girl  was  hastening  across  the  campus.  Her  day 
had  been  full  of  pleasure  and  triumph,  and  tomor 
row — she  walked  more  slowly  now,  and  a  wistful 
smile  lurked  about  the  sweet  mouth, — she  had  so 
hoped — but  a  friend  interrupted  the  revery.  "Oh, 
Ruth,  a  box  has  just  been  left  for  you.  Do  hurry 
and  open  it  now!" 

62 


The  New  Word 

A  moment  later  the  girl  lifted  from  the  box  an 
immense  bunch  of  magically  hued  Iris.  When  she 
was  alone  she  opened  the  note  that  she  had  seen 
peeping  from  the  mass  of  blue.  It  contained  only, 
"I'll  call  for  you  at  six — John." 

Long  had  they  sat  there  beside  the  friendly  rho 
dodendrons.  Soft  for  an  hour  had  come  the  lapping 
of  near-by  waves,  mingled  with  the  whisperings 
among  the  alders.  At  last  with  luminous  faces 
they  sought  the  beckoning  water. 

The  lowering  sun  had  charmed  upon  the  restless 
waves  of  Puget  Sound  a  long,  narrow  line  of  won 
derful  color.  The  air  was  very  clear  and  the  distant 
Olympic  summits  glowed  with  the  rose  light  of 
the  Infinite. 

John  turned  to  Euth.  That  which  had  gleamed 
at  him  from  the  upturned  face  of  the  legendary 
saint,  that  which  his  mother's  smile  had  breathed 
into  real  life,  and  which  had  been  fostered  by  the 
wild  Iris  and  the  larks  and  the  pine-tops,  was  now 
clarified  and  consummated  in  the  girlish  figure  be 
side  him.  He  could  scarcely  wait  to  finish  the  last 
chapter  of  his  book. 

He  drew  the  girl  close  until  he  breathed  the  fra 
grance  of  the  blue  flower  in  her  gown.  Together 
they  gazed  out  over  the  wild  tossing  Sound  waters 
toward  where  they  knew  there  was  the  mighty  calm 
ness  of  the  Pacific  beyond,  and  then — out  of  the 
strugglings  of  the  man's  soul  was  born  a  mighty 
sense  of  peace.  He  felt  the  glad,  promised  pres 
sure  of  that  dear  unseen  hand,  and  then  he  knew 

63 


The  New  Word 

that  he  had  sought  out  one  of  the  highest  of  the 
high  places. 

He  seemed  to  see  a  word  emblazoned  in  shining 
letters  of  gold  against  the  jagged,  magic-hued  peaks 
of  the  Olympics;  he  seemed  to  hear  falling  softly 
from  unseen  lips,  as  in  a  benediction,  that  new  word, 
Service. 


64 


Tod's  "Santy" 

The  "special"  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  local 
train,  "The  Owl,"  that  had  been  sidetracked  for 
twenty  minutes,  switched  to  the  main  line. 

Tod  was  behind  the  big  sign  by  the  water  tank. 
A  little  distance  away  on  the  end  of  a  log,  a  brown 
object  had  just  appeared;  sitting  erect  on  its  hind- 
legs,  it  began  to  industriously  manipulate  its  front 
paws.  Tod,  oblivious  to  all  else,  watched  it,  fascin 
ated.  All  at  once,  he  started  towards  the  log.  The 
brown  object  pricked  up  its  ears,  jumped  off,  and 
disappeared  into  the  ground  right  before  Tod's  as 
tonished  eyes.  "It's  sure  a  Jackie  wabbit!  A 
Jackie  wabbit!"  he  shouted  and  ran  to  tell  Uncle 
Nate  and  Rod,  or  anyone  of  the  wonderful  happen 
ing.  He  emerged  from  behind  the  sign  and  looked — 
and  looked  again.  Nothing  in  sight  near  him  save 
the  tank,  the  tall  Washington  firs  and  pines  and 
the  little  spring.  In  the  distance,  rounding  the 
curve  and  speeding  away  from  him  was  the  local. 
On  it  were  mother,  Uncle  Nate,  and  Eod,  his  twin 
brother. 

Tod  stared  for  a  moment,  then  he  began  to  howl. 
The  jack-rabbit  had  come  out  of  its  hole,  and  heard 
writh  amazement  the  unusual  sound.  As  the  train 
entirely  disappeared  from  view,  Tod  ran  down  the 
track  after  it  as  fast  as  his  short,  fat  legs  could 
carry  him.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  overcome  by  a 

65 


Tod's  "Samty" 

sense  of  desolation.  It  was  a  lonely  spot,  the  nar 
row  entrance  to  the  valley;  the  lofty  range  of  the 
Cascades  rose  on  either  hand,  and  the  big  trees 
grew  down  close  to  the  track  save  where  a  little 
clearing  had  been  made  near  the  spring  and  the 
tank.  It  was  the  only  stop  in  the  long  stretch  be 
tween  the  big  lumber  camp  and  the  valley  town 
thirty  miles  away. 

Finally  Tod  turned  and  trotted  slowly  back  to 
the  tank.  All  about  him  was  silence  and  the  great 
trees;  the  rabbit  had  disappeared  again.  Near  the 
tank,  stood  the  big  new  sign.  It  advertised  the 
fact  that  the  Valley  Mercantile  Company  was 
"Headquarters  for  Santa  Glaus."  A  generous  sup 
ply  of  red  paint  had  been  used  to  portray  the  old 
fellow  himself,  lifesize,  with  his  pack  on  his  back. 

Tod  looked  up  at  the  big,  red  Santa  Claus,  and  a 
feeling  of  comfort  stole  into  his  little  heart.  "Santy 
is  coming  tonight;  on  the  train  and  everywhere; 
mother  said  so.  He  will  find  me.  He  surely  will !" 
The  ruddy  face  of  Santy  seemed  to  smile  upon  him, 
and  he  thought  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  At 
length,  overcome  by  exhaustion,  he  crouched  down 
in  front  of  the  sign,  close  to  Santy's  feet  and  fell 
asleep. 

The  December  sun  had  dropped  out  of  sight  be 
hind  the  mountains — the  wind  was  rising  and  moan 
ing  among  the  tops  of  the  pines.  Snow  had  begun 
to  fall  in  large  flakes,  few  and  far  apart. 

A  horseman  riding  slowly  down  the  trail  stopped 
at  a  bend  in  the  path  and  looked  cautiously  up  and 

66 


Tod's  "Svnty" 

down  the  track.  "Coast  is  clear,"  he  said  aloud, 
"nothing  due  now  until  ten  o'clock  tomorrer.  Tom 
said  as  how  he  would  cache  the  provisions  in  that 
clump  of  trees,  same  as  t'other  time.  I'll  get  'em 
and  be  making  tracks  back  afore  it  gets  too  dark. 
Looks  like  we're  in  for  a  big  storm.  I  shan't  ob 
ject."  He  rode  across  the  track,  straight  up  to  a 
clump  of  cedars  on  the  opposite  side.  Dismounting, 
he  pushed  away  a  big  stone  lying  there,  and  a  hole 
in  the  ground  was  revealed.  He  reached  in,  and 
pulled  out  a  canvas  sack. 

"Bacon  and  meal,  I  judge,  and  coffee  an  terbacker 
from  the  smell.  Good  for  you,  old  Pard,  you  allus 
know  what  a  feller  wants."  He  rolled  the  stone 
into  place,  fastened  the  sack  to  the  animal's  neck, 
and  mounted  again. 

When  he  reached  the  track,  he  turned  and  rode 
towards  the  spring.  "Might  as  well  give  the  cay  use 
a  drink.  Blamed  if  the  Valley  Mercantile  Company 
hasn't  put  up  a  new  piece  of  architecture  since  I 
was  here  afore.  'Headquarters  for  Santa  Claus,' 
and  old  Nick  himself!  Big  head  for  business  some 
one  must  have ;  something  red  on  the  ground  there. 
It's  safe  to  investigate,  I  reckon." 

He  rode  nearer,  and  looked  down  on  Tod  in  his 
red  sweater,  curled  up  against  the  sign,  fast  asleep, 
two  tears  still  visible  on  his  freckled  cheeks. 

"The  little  vagabond !  what  in  the  name  of  King 
dom  Come  is  he  doin'  here?  Must  have  got  left 
somehow.  Sorry  we  can't  turn  into  a  rescuin'  party, 
but  circumstances  are  plumb  agin  it."  He  watered 
his  horse  and  came  back  to  the  sign.  "Hate  to  leave 

67 


Tod's  "Santy" 

the  little  chap,  but  it's  too  risky."  He  looked  anx 
iously  around;  night  was  coming  on  and  the  snow 
was  falling  fast.  His  cap  and  old  mackinaw  were 
already  white. 

The  child  stirred  uneasily  and  opened  his  eyes. 
The  man  stooped  over  him.  "I  fought  you'd  come, 
Santy,"  murmured  Tod  sleepily,  "Did  you  bring  the 
reindeer?"  "You  bet,"  replied  "Santy,"  "the  whole 
six  on  'em."  "But  my  name's  Jake,"  he  muttered, 
too  low  for  Tod  to  hear,  and  "I'm  in  for  it  now." 

Holding  the  child  half-stupefied  with  cold  with 
one  arm,  with  the  other  he  guided  the  sturdy  little 
cayuse  up  the  trail.  The  wind  was  blowing  straight 
from  the  canyon.  Before  they  had  gone  a  mile,  a 
furious  storm  was  raging.  Horse  and  man  fought 
their  way  in  the  teeth  of  a  blizzard ;  steadily  higher 
and  higher  they  mounted  to  a  little  shack  that  faced 
the  trail. 

Jake  carried  the  child  in  and  laid  him  on  the  rude 
bunk  built  against  the  wall.  Raking  up  the  em 
bers  in  the  fire-place  he  piled  on  fuel  until  the 
whole  room  was  lit  by  a  cheerful  glow;  then  he 
went  outside,  cared  for  the  cayuse  and  brought  in 
the  sack  of  provisions. 

Tod  was  awake  and  was  sitting  up  in  the  bunk, 
looking  around  in  bewilderment.  Jake  carried  him 
to  a  seat  in  front  of  the  fire  and  as  he  began  to 
remove  his  shoes  and  sweater,  Tod  found  his 
tongue.  "Is  this  your  house,  Santy"?  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  wailed,  "I  want  my  mother,  an'  I  want 
Uncle  Nate  and  Roddy." 

68 


Tod's 

"All  right,  all  right,  Kiddie,  we'll  find  'em  ter- 
morrer.  The  reindeers  will  be  ready  to  take  us  to 
the  ten  o'clock,  but  we'll  have  to  stay  here  tonight 
on  account  of  the  storm.  It's  too  much  for  my 
reindeers,  though  they're  pretty  tough.  Now  you 
just  sit  and  toast  your  toes,  while  I  hustle  around 
and  get  somethin'  to  eat." 

Tod,  warmed  and  fed,  cuddled  down  in  Jake's 
arms. 

"You're  a  funny  Santy,"  he  said  after  awhile, 
"but  I  'spose  you're  all  right.  I  hope  you  brought 
my  little  auto, — I  wrote  you  'bout  it,  you  know; 
you  may  give  it  to  me  now,  if  you  want  to." 

"Better  wait  till  tomorrer,  kid,"  replied  Jake, 
"you  kin  have  this  tonight,"  and  he  pulled  out  a 
battered  watch. 

Tod  took  it  and  was  silent  for  a  time,  turning  it 
over  and  over,  in  the  firelight;  then  the  torrent  of 
questions  broke  forth  again. 

"Did  you  bring  presents  to  the  Babe  of  Bethle 
hem,  Santy?  when  he  was  lying  in  the  shed  with 
the  cows  and  sheep?  It's  his  birthday  tomorrow, 
mother  said.  I'm  four  years  old,  and  I  get  presents 
on  my  birthday.  Did  you  'member  Him  when  He 
was  down  here?  I  'spose  you've  been  alive  ever 
since  the  Lord  made  little  boys  and  girls,  haven't 
you?"  Suddenly  he  began  to  sing: 

"While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night 
A  sitting  on  the  ground." 

"Mother  sings  that — I  don't  know  but  just  those 
two  lines." 

69 


Tod's  "Santy" 

The  fire  on  the  hearth  burned  low.  Jake  put 
Tod  back  in  the  bunk,  and  covered  him  carefully 
with  his  old  coat.  The  child  slept  peacefully. 

When  morning  broke,  the  blizzard  had  spent  its 
force.  The  snow  lay  in  huge  drifts  on  the  moun 
tain  sides.  Above  the  cabin  towered  the  snowy 
peaks  of  the  Cascades  bathed  in  the  morning  sun 
light. 

Very  early,  Jake  with  Tod  in  front,  astride  the 
cayuse,  started  down  the  trail.  He  knew  full  well 
the  risk  he  ran  in  making  the  ten  o'clock,  but  his 
promise  to  the  child  must  be  kept.  There  was  no 
other  way. 

Sometimes  they  waded  snowdrifts  that  came  to 
the  animal's  neck;  again  the  ground  was  bare,  but 
covered  with  ice  that  made  traveling  difficult.  Tod 
was  happy  and  very  sociable,  but  Jake  grew  very 
quiet  as  they  drew  near  the  track. 

"There's  the  train,"  cried  Tod  as  a  shrill  whistle 
was  heard  in  the  clear,  still  air,  and  the  rumble  of 
wheels  reached  their  ears. 

"And  there's  Uncle  Nate,"  he  added,  as  the  train 
reached  the  tank  and  a  well  known  form  appeared 
on  the  platform. 

"I'm  here,  Uncle  Nate,"  he  shouted.  "I  stayed 
all  night  with  Santy.  He's  here  too.  I've  had  a 
splendid  time.  Looky!  Looky."  He  held  up  the 
battered  watch.  "It's  mine.  Santy  gave  it  to  me." 

The  train  stopped  just  long  enough  for  Jake  to 
place  Tod  in  his  uncle's  arms.  "Tell  me  your  name 
and  where  to  reach  you,"  said  Uncle  Nate.  Jake 
shook  his  head. 

70 


Tod's  "Santy" 

"Good-bye,  Santy,"  piped  a  little  voice.  "You're 
sure  I'll  get  the  auto."  "Sure,  sure,"  answered 
Jake.  "Good-bye,  Kid." 

As  the  train  moved  on,  suddenly  a  shot  rang  out 
and  several  horsemen  rode  into  view,  coming  down 
the  opposite  hill. 

"We've  got  him  all  right,"  exclaimed  Big  Sam, 
the  sheriff,  as  he  saw  Jake  reel  and  fall.  Dis 
mounting,  he  ran  to  the  side  of  the  prostrate  man. 
Jake  opened  his  eyes,  his  dying  glance  fell  on  the 
sign,  and  a  smile  drifted  across  his  lips.  "Christ 
mas,  and  the  little  tad  took  me  for  Santy." 


71 


Her  Birthright 

Louise  Whitman  paused  in  her  dusting  and 
studied  thoughtfully  the  rugged  western  landscape 
framed  by  the  window, — pines,  cedars  and  tama 
rack  in  the  foreground,  volcanic  rock  in  the  middle 
distance,  and  far  away  against  a  cobalt  sky,  many 
purple  mountains.  She  remembered  how,  when 
her  eyes  had  first  rested  on  the  scene,  she  had 
thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  reproducing  it.  Painting 
had  always  given  her  a  peculiar  joy.  She  responded 
with  exalted  emotion  to  any  happy  juxtaposition  of 
colors  about  her,  and  the  successful  transferring 
to  canvas  of  a  mood  of  nature  gave  her  acute 
pleasure. 

Five  years  ago !  And  for  nearly  a  year  now  she 
had  not  opened  her  paint  box.  Her  baby,  now  three 
years  old,  had  quite  fully  occupied  her  time,  but 
she  knew  that  he  had  not  been  the  real  obstacle. 
On  the  contrary,  she  saw  that,  other  things  being 
equal,  he  might  have  contributed  to  her  inspiration. 
For  the  first  year  she  had  worked  diligently  and 
happily,  although  she  found  with  keen  disappoint 
ment  that  her  husband  took  no  interest  whatever 
in  her  efforts.  About  the  end  of  the  year  however, 
Paul's  business  affairs  began  to  go  badly,  and  at  the 
same  time  his  attitude  towards  her  painting 
changed  gradually  from  indulgent  toleration  to  im 
patience  and  active  hostility.  Then  the  baby  ar- 

73 


Her  Birthright 

rived,  and  for  the  next  two  years  Louise  was  so 
completely  occupied  with  the  normal  and  satisfy 
ing  cares  of  motherhood  that  the  issue  was  lost 
sight  of. 

One  bright  May  morning  when  the  air  was  vi 
brating  with  sunshine,  Louise  tucked  the  baby  into 
his  go-cart,  and  taking  her  paintbox  under  her  arm, 
started  off  for  a  nearby  park  intending  to  make  a 
day  of  it.  From  the  first  however  everything  went 
wrong.  The  baby  kept  getting  his  fists  into  her 
paints;  she  found  that  two  years  of  almost  com 
plete  idleness  had  played  havoc  with  her  skill,  and 
what  divided  attention  she  managed  to  give  to  her 
canvas  produced  only  the  most  discouraging  results. 
About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  gave  up  and 
returned  to  the  house.  Paul  had  arrived,  driven 
home  early  it  appeared  by  a  headache,  after  an  un 
lucky  day  in  business.  His  mood  had  not  been  im 
proved  by  half  an  hour  in  the  empty  house,  and 
upon  seeing  the  painting  materials  he  gave  vent  to 
his  ill-temper  in  a  bitter  denunciation  of  her  pas 
sion  for  painting  and  her  extravagance  in  indulg 
ing  it.  Louise  was  deeply  hurt,  but  after  consid 
ering  the  matter  calmly  she  saw  that  the  founda 
tion  of  his  complaint  lay  in  money  matters,  and  in 
order  to  make  her  avocation,  at  least,  pay  for  it 
self  if  possible,  she  determined  to  make  a  few 
sketches  and  try  to  sell  them.  For  the  next  few 
months  she  worked  passionately  and  secretly;  but 
although  she  was  able  to  do  two  or  three  things 
which  satisfied  her  moderately,  she  knew  intuitively 
that  they  were  too  impressionistic  for  any  general 

74 


Her  Birthright 

appreciation  or  market.  Her  pictures  stood  about 
in  an  art  store  gathering  dust  until  she  removed 
them  in  chagrin.  After  that  she  painted  no  more, 
and  tried  conscientiously  to  fill  the  void  in  her  life 
with  her  domestic  duties  and  her  child. 

Today  as  she  looked  out  on  the  familiar  scene  it 
failed  to  stir  her.  Had  she  lost  her  responsiveness 
to  the  beautiful,  she  wondered?  She  finished  her 
dusting  and  went  out  to  the  kitchen  to  prepare  the 
lunch. 

"Hello,  Louise,"  called  Whitman  as  he  entered 
the  house  that  evening,  "you'll  never  guess  who's 
here !" 

"Why,  Harry  Collins,  of  all  people!"  Louise  ex 
claimed  as  she  warmly  grasped  both  hands  of  the 
unexpected  guest. 

Collins,  whom  both  of  them  had  known  since 
childhood,  had  become  the  editor  of  one  of  Chicago's 
great  dailies.  He  had  the  alert,  intelligent  look  of 
a  man  who  is  keenly  alive  in  an  interesting  world. 

During  dinner  the  talk  centered  about  old 
friends  and  doings  "back  east."  Collins  showed 
himself  to  be  an  active  participant  in  Chicago's  af 
fairs.  He  spoke  of  politics  and  the  Press  Club,  of 
the  Thomas  Orchestra  and  the  Art  Institute,  in  each 
of  which  he  had  a  personal  interest. 

"Harry,"  said  Louise  after  a  while,  "it  strikes  me 
that  your  own  development  has  been  quite  as  sur 
prising  as  Chicago's.  You  used  to  be  a  very  prac- 
ticl  sort  of  boy.  How  do  you  happen  to  know  so 
much  about  music  and  art?" 

75 


Her  Birthright 

"Well,"  said  Collins  smiling,  "I  think  this  is  the 
first  time  I  was  ever  called  on  to  defend  myself  on  a 
charge  of  undue  mentality,  but  if  you  must  know, 
I  think  I'll  have  to  follow  the  example  of  Adam 
and  throw  the  blame  on  a  woman.  The  fact  is  that 
my  wife  has  been  educating  me.  Before  I  was  mar 
ried  I  used  to  think  that  the  only  suitable  pleasures 
for  a  man  were  hunting,  baseball  and  poker.  My 
idea  of  absolutely  nothing  doing  was  Grand  Opera 
or  a  picture  gallery.  My  wife  has  taught  me  that 
the  most  satisfying  pleasure  in  life  comes  through 
studying  things.  Take  Art  for  instance.  Four 
years  ago  I  had  never  suspected  that  Art  could  be 
interesting  to  anybody  but  an  artist,  and  I  thought 
that  artists  were  born,  not  made.  Now  it's  my 
favorite  hobby,  and  in  a  small  way  I'm  a  collector. 
What  started  me  was  a  little  book  my  wife  gave 
me  on  "How  to  look  at  pictures."  It  was  delight 
ful.  I  followed  it  up  with  a  course  of  lectures  at 
the  Institute,  and  I've  been  studying  the  subject 
ever  since.  I  have  an  idea  that  almost  any  subject 
is  interesting  if  you  study  it,  and  for  a  guide  to  the 
good  things  in  life  commend  me  to  an  intelligent 
and  educated  woman.  What  do  you  say,  Whit 
man?" 

"Well,"  said  Paul,  "I  subscribe  to  your  senti 
ments  about  women.  I  did  my  part  in  putting 
through  the  suffrage  bill.  But  as  to  the  rest  I  have 
my  doubts.  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  art  myself, 
and  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  of  it  in  me.  It  sim 
ply  doesn't  interest  me." 

76 


Her  Birthright 

"It  doesn't  interest  you  because  you  never  gave  it 
any  of  your  august  attention.  You  probably  prefer 
billiards.  We  men  are  all  alike,  and  we're  really  an 
awful  set  of  asses.  Here,  come  in  the  parlor  a 
minute,"  he  continued,  "and  I'll  prove  to  you  that 
pictures  are  interesting.  Here  for  instance  is  a 
sea-view.  It  isn't  bad,  but  it  doesn't  compare  with 
that  little  landscape  over  there.  See  how  true  that 
perspective  is;  you  could  walk  among  those  trees. 
Now  look  at  the  sea-scape.  Don't  you  see  that  there 
is  something  just  a  little  wrong  about  the  colors? 
The  water  hasn't  the  solid,  rolling  look  of  a  real 
ocean,  and — " 

For  half  an  hour  he  talked,  not  pedantically,  but 
in  the  simple  conversational  way  of  a  man  who 
knows  his  subject  and  wants  to  share  his  pleasure 
in  it.  Louise  saw  with  secret  delight  that  Paul 
was  genuinely  interested. 

"By  the  way,  Louise,"  said  Collins  finally,  "it 
just  occurs  to  me  that  you  used  to  paint.  In  fact 
you  were  supposed  to  be  quite  a  budding  genius. 
Are  you  keeping  it  up?" 

"No,"  she  replied  laughing  in  embarrassment, 
"if  I  ever  had  any  genius  I'm  afraid  it's  a  case  of 
'the  light  that  failed.'  " 

"The  light  of  genius  never  fails  unless  it's  smoth-* 
ered,"  he  commented. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "a  baby  is  pretty  smoth 
ering,  and — " 

"Look  here,"  said  Whitman  suddenly,  "I  guess 
the  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  I'm  the  smotherer." 

77 


Her  Birthright 

"No,"  said  Louise  quickly,  "that  isn't  true.  I 
have  just  lost  interest.  I  was  thinking  of  it  today. 
I  don't  long  to  paint  as  I  used  to.  The  baby  and 
the  housework  keep  me  busy,  and  I  seem  to  be 
quite  contented." 

"If  that  is  true,"  said  Collins,  seriously,  "it  cer 
tainly  is  a  shame.  You  mean  that  you  have  given 
up  the  immense  pleasure  of  real  work — of  striving 
after  the  unattainable,  for  the  pitiful  satisfaction 
of  doing  your  drudgery  well.  It's  a  case  of  Esau 
and  the  mess  of  pottage." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed,  "I  don't  think  I  have  sold 
mine  entirely.  I  have  dabbled  a  little  since  we 
came  west.  That  little  sketch  in  the  parlor  that 
you  seemed  to  like  was  mine." 

"I  suspected  it,"  said  Collins,  calmly,  "but  I 
meant  every  word  of  what  I  said  about  it.  It's  good. 
It's  the  real  thing.  I'm  positive  I  can  sell  it  for  a 
hundred  or  so  if  you  care  to  part  with  it." 

"No,"  said  Whitman  quickly,  "I  want  that  sketch 
myself.  It's  the  first  picture  I  ever  saw  that  I  cared 
for." 

Collins  staid  until  midnight,  and  then  Whitman 
left  also  to  take  him  to  his  train.  The  next  morn 
ing  at  breakfast  Paul  began  courageously: 

"Louise,  I  believe  that  if  the  dog  in  the  manger 
had  ever  learned  to  like  hay  himself,  he  would  not 
have  been  so  mean  about  the  matter.  He  probably 
thought  it  was  all  foolishness  for  the  cow  to  eat  the 
stuff.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  my  dear,  and  I'm 
sorry.  I  want  you  to  go  on  with  your  painting  and 

78 


Her  Birthright 

I  want  you  to  educate  me  as  Collins'  wife  did  him. 
Will  you  do  it?" 

For  answer  she  reached  a  hand  across  the  table 
and  Paul  pressed  it  tenderly. 

When  he  had  gone,  Louise  stood  at  the  window 
and  looked  across  at  her  favorite  scene  with  shining 
eyes.  She  knew  just  how  she  would  begin  to  paint 
it. 


79 


The  Disciplinarian 

Thomas  Carmichael  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of 
the  Sound  country  and  all  the  people  in  the  valley 
loved  him.  His  large  heart  yielded  sympathy  as 
his  broad  acres  yielded  harvests  and  his  farmhouse 
was  a  caravansary  from  which  no  traveler  was  ever 
turned  away.  And  this  capacious  farmhouse  with 
its  labyrinthic  interior  enabled  his  daughter  Jennie 
to  elude  the  household  order  of  rising  with  the  lark. 

This  shrewd  and  tactful  Jennie  was  soft  and 
round  and  dimpled  and  pink,  the  baby  of  the  family 
and  pampered  withal,  notwithstanding  her  father's 
efforts  to  bring  her  up  in  the  way  she  should  go. 
Her  winters  were  spent  in  a  boarding  school  and 
her  summers  in  the  hammock  and  in  making  raids 
on  the  pantry  between  meals.  Also,  she  exerted 
some  time  and  energy  in  trying  to  find  a  place  to 
sleep  where  her  father  could  not  find  her  and  get 
her  up  at  sunrise  in  the  morning. 

When  breakfast  was  well  under  way  and  the  fam 
ily  and  its  helpers  were  awake  and  abroad,  it  was 
Uncle  Tom's  habit  to  make  a  roundup  of  the  house 
to  find  Jennie  and  get  her  out  of  bed  in  time  for 
breakfast.  This  was  no  small  part  of  the  morning's 
work,  for  Jennie  changed  her  bed  every  time  her 
father  discovered  where  she  slept  and  it  was  often 
difficult  to  locate  her.  But  Thomas  Carmichael's 
interests  were  manifold  and  his  attention  had  often 

81 


The  Disciplinarian 

to  be  withdrawn  from  his  sluggish  daughter  and 
given  to  more  important  matters,  whereby  Jennie 
profited. 

Among  his  civic  responsibilities  was  the  chair 
manship  of  the  board  of  directors  of  the  Rhododen 
dron  School.  He  sent  no  children  to  the  school, 
himself,  his  own  having  married  and  gone  their 
way  except  Andrew  and  Jennie,  who  wrere  supposed 
to  have  outgrown  the  district  school.  But  his  in 
terest  in  the  local  seat  of  learning  was  none  the  less 
deep  and  he  discharged  his  responsibility  faithfully. 

When  harvest  was  in  full  swing  and  all  hands  in 
the  field  hurrying  in  with  the  hay,  a  young  woman 
from  another  community  came  to  the  house  to  apply 
to  Uncle  Tom  for  the  winter  school.  They  told  her 
that  he  was  in  the  field  with  the  men,  and  invited 
her  to  stay  over  night  and  see  him  at  supper  time, 
which  invitation  she  accepted.  The  need  of  some 
repairs  to  the  machinery  took  Mr.  Carmichael  to 
the  station  that  afternoon  and  he  did  not  reach 
home  until  late  at  night,  making  it  impossible  for 
the  teacher  to  see  him  until  morning. 

The  delay  made  no  difference.  It  was  expected 
that  Uncle  Tom  would  give  her  the  school  because 
it  was  hard  to  refuse  a  woman  at  any  time,  also 
because  his  son  Andrew  had  already  spoken  for 
her.  Andrew's  interest  in  the  young  woman  lay  in 
the  fact  that  he  had  met  her  at  country  dances 
down  the  river  valley  and  had  gotten  himself  en 
gaged  to  her.  To  be  sure,  Andrew's  engagements 
were  not  taken  very  seriously  by  any  one  except 
himself  and  the  woman  engaged,  because  there  had 

82 


The  Disciplinarian 

been  so  many  of  them.  He  had  been  making  en 
gagements  since  he  was  in  his  teens,  and  the  girls 
in  the  neighborhood  who  had  once  been  engaged  to 
Andrew  Carmichael  were  married  and  happy  and 
numbered  their  children  by  twos  and  by  threes. 

But  one  young  woman  near  by,  to  whom  he  had 
pledged  his  faith  while  he  was  yet  a  minor,  was  bid 
ing  her  time.  Clemmie  Whiteside  did  not  want  re 
venge,  she  wanted  Andrew.  She  knew  his  character 
and  she  knew  his  past;  she  knew  all  of  his  weak 
nesses,  and  she  wanted  Andrew.  She  was  not 
handsome,  red-haired  and  lofty,  as  was  Mary  Ham 
ilton,  the  teacher,  but  she  knew  what  she  wanted 
and  she  could  wait. 

Not  long  after  Miss  Hamilton  was  installed  in 
the  house  to  await  the  return  of  Uncle  Tom,  led  by 
some  instinct,  Clemmie  Whiteside  came  over  to 
sit  in  the  hammock  with  Jennie  and  by  some  process 
of  telepathy  impressed  the  thought  upon  Jennie 
that  she  must  ask  her  to  stay  all  night;  and  while 
Mrs.  Carmichael  and  the  women  were  at  work  in 
the  kitchen,  Jennie  was  sent  up  stairs  to  make  ready 
a  room  for  Miss  Hamilton,  who  had  been  left  read 
ing  in  the  living  room.  Clemmie  went  up  with 
Jennie.  Half-way  up  the  stairs  she  stopped  to 
steal  a  glance  from  ambush  at  the  girl  who  had  sup 
planted  her.  Andrew  had  deserted  the  haymakers 
as  soon  as  he  had  learned  that  Mary  Hamilton  was 
in  the  house  and  had  found  his  way  to  her  presence. 
He  was  in  his  happiest  mood.  He  was  bantering 
her  and  calling  her  "Mary  Carmichael,"  and  sing 
ing  snatches  of  Scottish  folklore  to  her. 

83 


The  Disciplinarian 

"You  are  fit  to  be  a  queen's  maid  of  honor,  any- 
day,"  the  girls  heard  him  say,  "and  you  shall  live 
to  wear  the  name  of  two  of  Mary  Stuart's  maids 
of  honor,  and  surpass  them  both  in  beauty."  And 
then  he  trailed  off  into  the  swan  song  of  another 
Mary  Hamilton  who  lived  three  hundred  years  be 
fore  her : 
"Last  night  there  were  four  Marys,  tonight  there'll 

be  but  three; 

There  were  Mary  Beaton  and  Mary   Seaton  and 
Mary  Carmichael  and  me." 

"Do  you  know  who  the  other  one  was,  my  red- 
haired  sweetheart,"  he  challenged.  "She  was  Mary 
Hamilton;  and  I  know  another  Mary  Hamilton,  a 
modern  Mary  Hamilton,  who  will  be  Mary  Carmi 
chael  before  the  year  is  out,  and  who  will  have  all 
the  graces  of  them  both.  I  only  asked  dad  to  give 
you  the  school  so  we  could  have  you  in  the  house 
and  I  could  make  love  to  you  every  day." 

But  it  became  apparent  to  Clemmie  on  the  stairs 
that  Mary  Hamilton  was  hard  to  court;  and  that 
she  seemed  only  half  in  love  with  the  ardent  An 
drew.  She  secretly  exulted.  "Come  on,"  she  said 
to  the  waiting  Jennie,  "we  have  work  to  do  up 
stairs.  Where  are  you  going  to  put  her  to  sleep?" 

"Don't  know,"  answered  Jennie.  "Don't  know 
where  to  sleep  myself,  to  keep  out  of  dad's  way." 

"Does  he  still  whip  you  in  the  morning  to  get  you 
out  of  bed?" 

"Yes,  he  does,  if  I  don't  keep  out  of  his  way.  He 
can't  always  find  me." 

"Where  did  you  sleep  last  night?" 

84 


The  Disciplinarian 

"In  the  room  under  the  hemlocks." 

"Did  he  find  you?" 

"Yes,  and  he  will  be  back  there  again  in  the 
morning,  looking  for  me." 

"Well,  put  her  in  there !    Put  her  in  there !" 

Jennie  giggled.  "Yes,  but  I  don't  know  where 
we  can  go,  ourselves,  there  are  so  many  people  in 
the  house  in  haytime." 

"That  room  opens  on  the  veranda,"  suggested 
Clem.  "Put  her  in  the  hemlock  room,  and  we  can 
sleep  on  the  veranda.  We  can  rig  up  some  kind  of 
a  curtain  and  make  a  bed  on  the  veranda."  Jennie 
agreed. 

In  the  morning  they  were  awakened  by  the  sound 
of  a  shingle  at  work  in  the  hemlock  room,  as  they 
called  it,  and  looking  through  the  window  they  saw 
Uncle  Tom  bringing  it  down  on  the  sleeping  girl 
and  shouting: 

"Now,  will  you  get  up?    Now,  will  you  get  up!" 

"A  red  head  shot  up  from  the  pillows  and  a  terri 
fied  voice  answered : 

"Oh!  yes,  yes,  I'm  getting  up!    I'm  getting  up!" 

"When  she  got  possession  of  her  faculties  she 
saw  glaring  over  her  an  old  man  who  looked  like 
Andrew,  and  she  knew  it  must  be  his  father.  She 
turned  on  him  with  scorching  eyes: 

"I  am  getting  up,  yes  indeed !  and  I  am  going  just 
as  soon  as  I  get  dressed,  and  if  this  is  the  way  you 
treat  people  who  come  to  your  house,  I  am  glad  to 
know  it  before  I  am  led  into  marrying  the  son  of 
a  man  like  you !" 

85 


The  Disciplinarian 

All  this  went  on  while  Uncle  Tom  was  recover 
ing  his  breath  and  taking  in  the  situation.  He  was 
as  much  surprised  at  the  red  head  which  came  up 
out  of  the  pillows  as  she  was  at  the  shingle.  He 
stared  and  stammered  and  choked,  then  bolted  for 
the  door.  He  did  not  stop  until  he  reached  the  hay- 
barn  and  jumped  into  the  hay  to  hide. 

"What  under  heaven  is  the  matter,  father?" 
asked  Andrew,  who  was  feeding  the  stock.  "You 
look  as  if  you  had  broken  a  blood-vessel !" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  have  or  not,"  answered 
the  old  man,  "but  I  know  I've  broken  your  engage 
ment!" 

"What !  What !  What  do  you  mean !"  exclaimed 
his  son. 

"I've  spanked  the  teacher!  I  thought  she  was 
Jennie  and  I  took  a  shingle  to  her  to  get  her  out  of 
bed!  I  suppose  she  will  go  and  get  out  a  warrant 
and  have  me  arrested,  and  I  don't  blame  her  if  she 
does !  I  ought  to  be  locked  up  in  an  insane  asylum 
for  such  a  blasted  blunder  as  that!  I  feel  as  if  I 
ought  to  go  to  town  and  surrender  to  the  marshal." 

Not  Aunt  Millie  and  Jennie  and  Clemmie  and  An 
drew  combined  could  placate  the  injured  Mary.  She 
took  her  departure  in  lofty  indignation,  throwing 
her  engagement  ring  at  Andrew's  feet. 

Not  until  Clemmie  Whiteside  was  Andrew  Car- 
michael's  wife  by  all  the  authority  of  the  law  and 
the  church  did  Jennie  tell  the  secret  of  Andrew's 
broken  engagement. 


86 


"The  Fine  Country" 

AWARDED  SECOND  PRIZE 


Helga  was  happy.  She  sang  as  she  made  the 
toothsome  small  Christmas  cakes  with  Elsa  pud 
dling  with  a  bit  of  dough  at  the  other  end  of  the 
fine  table  Oscar  had  made  from  the  boards  of  a 
packing  box. 

"It's  the  fine  Christmas  we  will  have,"  chirruped 
Helga  shaking  a  spoon  playfully  at  little  Oscar  who 
lay  in  his  basket  and  stretched  his  thin  little  arms 
toward  his  mother  with  a  wan  smile. 

"It's  the  fine  country.  Is  it  not?  Yes?"  the 
happy  mother  prattled  on.  "Green  grass  right  to 
the  door  and  it  Christmas,  and  the  Christmas  tree 
growing  on  the  hill  behind  the  lot  and  such  greens 
Her  eyes  came  to  rest  upon  a  wreath  of  Wash 
ington  holly,  gay  with  a  bow  of  red  tarlatan,  thrift- 
ly  saved  from  a  fruit  basket,  that  hung  in  the  win 
dow. 

The  Sandgrens  had  seen  hard  times.  First,  there 
came  the  illness  of  Mother  Sandgren,  the  expensive 
operation  that  was  not  successful,  and  the  simple 
funeral  that  had  swallowed  up  the  last  of  the  sav 
ings.  Then  came  the  strike  with  Oscar  out  of  work, 
and  the  little  family  shifting  to  a  poorer  tenement, 
and  Oscar's  being  obliged  to  let  his  insurance  "go 
back,"  and  many  days  when  the  cupboard  rivaled 
Mother  Hubbard's  for  bareness. 

87 


"The  Fine  Country" 

Into  these  troubled  anxious  days  little  Oscar  was 
born,  pale  and  puny.  Often  there  was  no  fire  in 
the  poor  little  rooms.  Helga  snuggled  her  frail 
baby  in  the  feather  bed  and  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  the  winter. 

Then  came  news  of  a  far  country  of  wonderful 
climate  and  an  abundance  of  work.  Mother  Sand- 
gren's  hand-woven  sheets  and  table  covers  and  the 
quaint  lace  collars  of  strong  thread  and  intricate 
pattern  procured  the  tickets  to  Seattle.  The  poor 
little  cottage  on  the  ragged  outskirts  of  the  city; 
with  the  red  rambler  stretching  its  bare  runners 
along  its  frail  porch,  looked  like  Heaven  after  the 
crowded  tenement.  Little  Oscar  lay  in  his  basket 
under  the  naked  rambler  and  breathed  in  the  air 
smelling  of  kelp  and  invigorating  with  a  tang  of 
salt  and  stopped  his  pitiful  moaning. 

Each  day  Oscar  went  thankfully  to  his  job  where- 
ever  chance  or  good  fortune  called  him  and  looked 
forward  hopefully  to  the  spring  and  steady  employ 
ment  in  his  own  calling. 

"For  the  Christmas,"  smiled  Oscar,  slipping  a 
gold  coin  into  his  wife's  hand. 

"Five  dollars !"  marveled  Helga  with  happy  won 
der,  "so  much  can  we  have?  A  rocking  chair  and  a 
rug  it  will  buy,  and  a  Teddy  for  little  Oscar  and  a 
Kewpie  for  Elsa." 

That  was  the  way  Helga  found  Miss  Grace.  "It's 
the  church  ladies'  rummage  sale  for  the  grand  bar 
gains,"  Mrs.  Kruppner  told  Helga. 

88 


"The  Fine  Country" 

Miss  Grace's  booth  was  in  a  hubbub.  There  had 
been  a  near-accident.  Investigation  proved  a  badly 
torn  gown  was  the  worst  of  it. 

"It's  like  new,  I  can  fix  it,"  offered  Helga,  "my 
mother  do  the  fine  sewing  in  the  old  country." 

While  the  skilled  needle  flew  in  and  out,  Helga, 
with  little  Oscar  tucked  under  one  arm  and  Elsa, 
a  flaxen-haired  little  fairy,  pressed  close  to  the 
other  side,  opened  her  heart  to  the  kindly  inquisi 
tive  young  ladies.  The  hard,  hard  days  of  the 
strike,  the  bright  little  cottage  "all  to  our  own- 
selves,"  and  the  happy  Christmas-making  under  the 
leafless  rambler,  all  came  out. 

And,  lo,  the  purchasing  power  of  that  gold  coin ! 
a  really  good  rocker,  a  serviceable  rug  for  the  little 
house,  a  cosy  lounging  jacket  for  Oscar,  an  open- 
and-shut-eyed  dolly  for  Elsa,  a  Teddy  bear,  a  woolly 
dog,  and  a  red  ball  for  little  Oscar,  not  to  mention 
a  dainty  apron  and  a  string  of  beads  for  Helga  her 
self. 

Winter  flowed  on  into  spring.  Little  Oscar  grew 
plump  and  frolicsome.  Helga  worked  happily  in 
her  garden. 

"So  early  the  lettuce  and  the  peas,"  she  mar 
veled  to  Mrs.  Kruppner.  "The  fine  country!  Is 
it  not?  Yes?  In  the  old  country  all  the  time  it  is 
the  wars.  The  mothers  raise  their  babies  for  the 
guns — ugh." 

Then  came  the  promise  of  Oscar's  steady  work. 
"Tomorrow,  I  begin,"  he  exulted,  pulling  the  rocker 
upon  the  rug  and  Helga  upon  his  knee,  with  a  glass 
of  beady  brown  home-brew  held  high,  he  toasted  the 

89 


"The  Fine  Country" 

fine  job.  "The  pay  will  be  so  fine.  Soon  we  take 
out  the  insurance  one  time  more.  Maybe  some  day 
we  buy  the  little  place.  Little  Oscar  will  go  to  the 
free  school  and  get  to  be  the  boss.  The  fine  country ! 
Is  it  not?  Yes?" 

It  was  thus  Miss  Grace  found  them.  "A  Rem- 
brandt!  A  Rembrandt,"  she  cried  at  sight  of  the 
tableau. 

In  an  hour  she  was  back  with  a  present  for  Helga. 
It  was  a  small  framed  print  of  Rembrandt  with  his 
wife,  Saskia,  upon  his  knee.  He  held  aloft  a  glass 
of  wine.  "An  Hour  to  Happiness  and  to  Wine," 
she  interpreted  for  Helga. 

The  next  day,  as  Helga  worked  contentedly  in 
her  garden,  a  workman  appeared,  rolling  his  hat  in 
embarrassment  and  stammering  his  tale  with  sor 
row-choked  gasps.  At  last,  Helga  understood.  In 
dustry  had  taken  its  toll.  It  was  Oscar.  Her 
heart  died  within  her.  The  springs  of  happiness 
ran  dry.  She  had  seen  this  come  to  a  score  of 
women.  Now  it  had  come  to  her.  She  could  not 
have  quoted  Kipling: 
"Lift  ye  the  stone  or  cleave  the  wood  to  make  a  path 

more  fair  or  flat — 

Lo,  it  is  black  already  with  blood  some  son  of  Mar 
tha  spilled  for  that. 
Not  as  a  ladder  from  Earth  to  Heaven,  not  as  an 

altar  to  any  creed 
But  simple  service,  simply  given,  to  his  own  kind  in 

their  common  need." 

but  in  her  heart  she  knew  the  law  and  it  crushed 
her  to  an  inarticulate  stupified  thing.  Dumbly  she 

90 


"The  Fine  Country" 

sat  in  the  undertaker's  room  beside  her  loved  clay 
and  held  the  cold  hand  that  had  held  the  glass  of 
ale  to  toast  the  fine  job. 

"So  fine  the  pension  you  will  get,"  comforted 
Mrs.  Kruppner.  "It  is  twenty  by  the  month  and 
five  for  each  of  the  three  children,  Mrs.  Slavonski 
gets  for  her  man." 

But  Helga  recked  nothing  of  employers'  liabil 
ities,  and  of  pensions.  Oscar,  her  Oscar  was  gone. 
She  seemed  deprived  of  all  power  to  move  on  into 
the  blackness  ahead.  Tearless  and  stricken,  she 
sat  in  the  rocker  on  the  rug  and  gazed  with  un 
seeing  eyes  at  the  Kembrandt,  her  brain  shocked 
out  of  all  capacity  for  thought.  The  children,  their 
pinafores  soiled  and  their  pretty  faces  unwashed, 
crouched  in  a  corner  over  the  battered  Christmas 
toys,  silent  and  joyless. 

It  was  thus  the  charity  commissioner  found 
things  at  the  little  cottage,  for  it  appeared  there 
was  to  be  no  pension  after  all.  A  tardy  enrollment, 
a  trumped-up  charge  of  carelessness, — somewhere 
the  corporation  lawyer  found  a  loophole.  That  was 
his  business,  to  find  loopholes. 

The  conditions  at  the  little  cottage  confirmed  the 
reports  brought  to  the  juvenile  court.  The  charity 
commissioner  had  to  do  his  duty.  At  last  he  pierced 
the  pall  lying  over  Helga's  mind  and  she  was  made 
to  understand. 

"Give  up  my  babies,"  she  shrieked,  clasping  both 
darlings  to  her  breast. 

"The  Home  will  give  them  good  care,"  soothed 
the  officer,  "and  you  could  go  out  to  service." 

91 


"The  Fine  Country" 

"Without  my  babies,  I  not  cook ;  I  not  eat ;  I  not 
live,"  cried  Helga  panic-stricken.  "They  take  my 
Oscar.  They  not  have  my  babies.  I  work.  The 
garden!  the  fine  sewing!  little  Oscar  go  to  the 
free  school!  he  get  to  be  the  boss.  My  Oscar  say 
it." 

But  the  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  bore 
them  away  to  the  juvenile  court.  It  was  his  duty. 
Rumors  of  all  this  reached  Miss  Grace.  In  the 
court  she  made  her  plea  and  the  case  was  given  into 
her  hands. 

The  place  she  secured  for  Helga  was  in  a  large 
department  store.  Helga  was  grateful.  In  the  lit 
tle  housekeeping  rooms  down  town,  seated  in  the 
rocker  placed  on  the  rug,  her  babies  clasped  in  her 
arms,  her  eyes  on  the  Rembrandt,  the  blessed  tears 
came,  at  last,  a  long  cleansing,  saving  flood. 

"So  fine  the  job  I  have,"  she  told  Mrs.  Kruppner 
on  the  last  trip  to  the  little  house,  "not  till  nine 
of  the  morning  do  I  go  to  work,  and  a  stool  to  sit  on 
like  any  lady,  and  eight  hours  by  the  clock  I  work. 
And  all  the  day,  the  babies  so  happy  at  the  grand 
day  nursery.  So  fine  the  lunch  they  have  and  such 
pretty  manners  and  games  they  learn,  and  only  the 
few  cents  to  pay.  And  at  night, — "  she  folded  her 
arms  passionately  over  her  breast  and  spoke  with 
a  tense  fierceness — "they  are  mine,  mine.  We  sit 
in  the  rocker  on  the  rug  and  look  at  the  fine  pic 
ture  and  feel  Oscar  right  by." 

But  the  hard  times  crowded  their  way  over  the 
mountains  into  this  favored  land.  Trade  was  slow 
at  the  big  store.  There  were  anxious  whispers' 

92 


"The  Fine  Country" 

among  the  shop  girls.  "Last  come;  first  go,"  flung 
out  one  with  meaning  looks  at  Helga. 

The  approach  of  Christmas  brought  a  slightly 
brisker  trade,  but  still  below  the  usual  Holiday 
mark. 

"So  tired  my  feet,"  panted  Helga  dropping  upon 
her  stool 

"There'll  be  plenty  of  rest  after  Christmas," 
grimly  from  a  dark  browed  girl  at  the  notion 
counter. 

"Wouldn't  wonder  if  there  would  be  some  vaca 
tions  passed  around  for  Christmas  presents  in  the 
next  pay  envelopes,"  mirthlessly  laughed  a  big 
blonde  by  the  thread  cabinet. 

"Ah,  cut  it  out,"  ordered  the  dark  one  gruffly, 
"she's  got  kids." 

Again  Helga  understood.  Her  pay  envelope  con 
tained  one  of  the  predicted  vacations.  Laid  off ;  no 
job ;  the  rent ;  the  babies !  Miss  Grace  in  California ! 
too  well  she  understood.  What  could  she  do  against 
the  hard  times?  Even  her  Oscar  had  been  power 
less. 

All  night,  she  lay  wide-eyed,  dry-eyed,  her  babies 
pressed  close  to  her  side.  She  tried  to  think  of  the 
Christ  child.  She  tried  to  recall  what  the  kind 
matron  at  the  nursery  had  said  about  the  Father 
of  the  fatherless  and  the  Friend  of  the  widows.  But 
through  her  despairing  mind  beat  the  refrain :  no 
job !  the  babies !  they  would  take  them  away. 

Next  morning — Christmas  morning — she  remem 
bered  the  lesson  of  the  juvenile  court  and  tidied  the 
little  rooms  and  washed  and  dressed  the  babies  with 

93 


"The  Fine  Country" 

care  and  gave  them  the  stockings  filled  with  the 
simple  presents. 

Then  came  the  dapper  little  man  with  his  blanks. 
She  was  expecting  him.  It  had  come.  Her  babies 
were  to  be  torn  from  her. 

Dully  she  answered  his  questions.  Yes,  she  was 
an  American  citizen.  Yes,  her  husband  was  dead. 
Yes,  she  had  been  in  the  state  one  year. 

On  down  the  list  he  went.  The  last  question, 
twice  repeated,  galvanized  her  stunned  brain  into 
startled  activity.  What  was  he  saying?  Would 
she  maintain  a  home  for  her  children  if  granted 
a  pension  by  the  state? 

A  pension!  A  pension  for  what?  For  being  a 
mother. 

Slowly  Helga  took  it  in.  Would  she  maintain  a 
home  for  her  children!  Would  she!  She  laughed 
and  she  cried.  She  hugged  her  babies  as  if  she 
would  never  let  them  go.  She  wanted  to  kiss  the 
hand  of  the  kind  man.  And  oh,  what  a  Christmas 
they  had. 

The  next  day  she  scrubbed  and  polished  the  lit 
tle  house  with  the  naked  rambler  running  over  its 
frail  porch. 

"It's  the  fine  pension  I  will  have,"  she  chatted 
to  Mrs.  Kruppner.  "With  the  garden  and  the  fine 
sewing  we  will  do  fine.  It's  twenty  by  the  month 
I'll  get  from  the  state  until  little  Oscar  is  fifteen. 
By  then  he  be  through  the  free  school.  He  work. 
Soon  he  get  to  be  the  boss.  The  fine  country!  Is 
it  not?  Yes?" 


94 


